


Asunder

by timidbravado



Series: Asunder [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: A surprising amount of fluff, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecure Jack, Jack's an Anxious Boi, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shop Owner Mark, Sound Engineer Jack, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidbravado/pseuds/timidbravado
Summary: When Jack finally musters up the courage to ask Mark out, he's surprised to learn that it's a package deal.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Sean McLoughlin
Series: Asunder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1854268
Comments: 112
Kudos: 136





	1. Prologue - After

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo many things I want to mention, but I'll try to keep it brief.  
> 1\. This story was not written for educational purposes, though I did try to be realistic about DID and how it affects those who have it. That said, I'm by no means an expert, and I do believe I've taken some creative liberties. There are some great YouTubers with DID that you should go watch if you're actually looking to learn about it. Google is also your friend.  
> 2\. The rating for this may go up, I'm not quite sure yet. I will be updating the tags as needed with each new chapter.  
> 3\. This story will be part one of a two-part series and is unrelated to the other story I have posted. I'm sorry if you came here looking for an update to that, but this story has been taking over my brain and I need to get it out so I can focus on that one. This one is a lot shorter and simpler, plot-wise, so it shouldn't take nearly as long to finish.  
> 4\. I didn't even try to Brit-pick (Irish-pick?) because I know I'd inevitably miss something, likely many somethings.  
> 5\. I hope you enjoy!

_“Damien, please!” the shriek blares through the speakers, stopping his blood cold. He glances at Wil and Yancy in shock, but they’re only looking back at him in concern. Right, they can’t hear it. A ball of trepidation grows in his stomach when he looks down to see the keys dangling before him, covered in blood. He’d said he would help, but was this really what he’d meant?_

_“Damien!” the screaming continues, so shrill he winces. He can hear echoed crying in the distance, and he knows he can’t leave Mark like this. He’s the oldest—it’s his duty to protect him. Hesitantly, he reaches for the keys with trembling fingers._

_He’s in agony before he even surfaces._

Dark starts in his seat, annoyed that he’d allowed his mind to slip elsewhere. He squints sullenly into the darkness before it occurs to him that he doesn’t know what brought him out of it.

He has no idea how long he’s been confined to the rear of the limo, brooding in the shadows where the interior lights don’t shine. The last time he drove is also on the hazy side, so he knows it’s been a while. Weeks, maybe months. It doesn’t help that he prefers to go into a somewhat comatose state while he’s back here. It’s better to not think at all when he has no one else to distract him.

The muffled voices to his right are somewhat of a surprise, though he’s also irritated that they’ve taken this long to come back. Standing up, he makes his way towards the lights that have appeared in the distance. It’s a shorter walk than it should be, but physics have never really worked, here.

He scans the faces that surround him as he nears the front, noting that there’s nobody new. Good. He hasn’t missed anything too important, then, and that saves him from interrogating the others. They tend to be extremely unhelpful, and seem obliged to remain so if the way that the majority of them avoid catching his eye is anything to go by.

Checking that the windows are opaque as ever, he also spares a glance towards the divider that is up, as expected. The speakers are also emitting a low hum of static that would grate on him more if years of it hadn’t desensitized him to the noise. He already knows that Mark is driving, since he had not joined him in the back and is not among those sitting around him now. Letting out a quiet sigh, he elects to sit near the Host.

“He takes a deep breath to calm himself. _It’s for the best,_ he thinks before sensing another presence. _No, it’s not time yet! Go away go away go away go away go away go away…”_ the Host rambles, growing quieter until the movement of their lips is the only sign that they're saying anything. Dark bites back a growl of annoyance, feeling a sharp flash of anger. First he’s sent away for who knows how long despite being on his best behavior, and he’s still being left out of the loop.

Someone takes a seat on his other side, and he knows who it is without looking. There’s only one alter brave enough—or perhaps _uncaring_ enough—to approach him so freely. “Hello, Wil,” he greets disinterestedly, more focused on futilely attempting to discern any meaningful shapes from the mess of blobs rushing past the window.

“Been some time, hasn’t it, old friend,” Wilford comments cheerfully, going so far as to pat him on the shoulder. He stiffens at the touch, but allows it with a tilt of his head.

“I believe so,” he replies coldly, watching Eric fidget nervously and slide further away from where Dark’s been eyeing the window behind his head. “Mark is hiding something.”

Wil chuckles. “Isn’t he always? Flighty kid, that one,” he drawls, taking a sip of some fruity abomination that he’s holding, pink mustache wiggling absurdly. Mark would protest the ‘kid’ comment, but Dark is more inclined to agree with him than correct him.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he hisses, hands fisting. “Why else would he put me in the back? There’s something he doesn’t want me to know.” He notes the way the other man’s eyes are glued to his drink, his foot bouncing animatedly where it’s crossed over his opposite leg. “You know, don’t you?” he asks, incredulous, and the alter’s heavy sigh is all the confirmation he needs. Wil hardly ever drives, would more readily isolate himself in the back than accept the keys most of the time, and he knows. _He knows._

Rage threatens to consume him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant this level of fear and avoidance from Mark, _who does he think he is—_

“Now, Dark, I understand you’re upset—”

 _“Upset?!_ I’ve been locked away for _weeks—”_

“—but there’s no need to take that tone with me,” Wil finishes sharply, meeting his gaze, and that’s enough to silence him. It’s incredibly difficult to get a rise out of the normally carefree man, and typically Dark would relish it, but he’s too shocked to do more than stare searchingly back at him. This must be serious, then.

“Wil,” he says quietly, attempting to leash his fury for the moment. “Tell me what’s happening.”

The alter breathes out another sigh, taking the umbrella out of his drink and twirling it between his fingers, back and forth. “It’s like the Host said, chap, it’s not quite time yet,” he answers airily.

Dark swallows back another swell of indignation. “I’m here now, and Mark will not be pushing me back for much longer. I will find out, one way or another.”

Wil laughs and nods in agreement. “Oh, I’ve no doubt. Some things you just have to see for yourself, and like you said, I’m sure you’ll be seeing this soon enough.”

He’s surprised his jaw hasn’t cracked from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. The man’s always been too damn cryptic, especially when he knows that it drives Dark insane. He’d like that, for someone to join him in the madness. “Just promise me it’s not bad. That he’s not keeping me from doing my job.” He hates Mark for what he made him do, but he will be damned if it was in vain.

The smile Wilford directs at him is too sad for his liking. “Nothing of the sort, old friend.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jack’s stomach is a bundle of nerves as he walks along the sidewalk. He thinks he might actually do it today. Today could be the day, after seven months of pining, that he finally gets the balls to ask Mark out. Of course, it could turn out like every other time he’s tried to do this over the past few weeks, where he makes a total ass of himself and walks home dejected. But. Mark’s always had a warm smile waiting for him when he inevitably returns, so that has to mean something. Okay, almost always. Sometimes he can be a bit of a cantankerous bastard, but who doesn’t have those moments? Whatever, that’s beside the point! He’s caught the lingering looks, the way he loses his train of thought sometimes when Jack drifts closer. He’s not crazy. This isn’t one-sided. Right?

Well, he’s quickly approaching the storefront now, so it looks like he’s about to find out. Maybe. He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans before opening the door, a tinkling bell announcing his entrance into Tiny Box Games. Aptly named, given that the store’s a meager 30 x 30 foot room, not including the even smaller back workroom. Still, Mark manages to keep it more cozy than cramped. The walls are lined with sleek shelving units that largely display alphabetically arranged video games and a few rarer movies, and the service counter also functions as a display case for the refurbished consoles that Mark’s currently selling. The back wall consists of some  _ Five Nights at Freddy’s  _ plushies, a few framed vintage posters, an ever-changing army of Funko Pops, and a 40-inch flatscreen TV with a table and chair situated a few feet in front of it that Mark will happily plug any console into with whatever game the customer wants to play for the whopping price of $7 an hour, or $12 for two. He’s single-handedly saved dozens of children from death by boredom as their parents shop in downtown Cincinnati. There’s a neon green sign under the TV stating that all of those proceeds, plus 10% of sales in general, go to the Council On Child Abuse, a local organization that works with schools to educate the general public about child abuse and how to prevent and stop it. Just more proof that Mark is one of the kindest human beings gracing the earth. Not that Jack would tell him that—it’d go right to his head.

If a customer prefers something a little more old-school, there’s the cheaper arcade machines pressed up against one of the display windows— _ Pac-Man  _ or  _ Galaga.  _ Other than that, there’s a lone gumball machine in the corner, and a four-foot tall LEGO Infinity Gauntlet placed in the center of the room, which Jack had eagerly helped construct. Overall, Tiny Box Games is an amalgamation of modern and vintage, quiet and loud, cluttered and open, and Jack absolutely adores it. Almost as much as the owner.

Who, sadly, is not behind the counter. Instead, his younger, blue-haired employee looks up with a grin. “Hey, man.”

“Ethan!” Jack greets, walking over to him. “How’s it going?” 

He shrugs. “Can’t complain. Got to learn about Dreamcasts today.”

Jack huffs a laugh, thrown down memory lane. “Oh my God, I forgot about those. Talk about a throwback. Which 80-year-old man bothered bringing that in?”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Dude,  _ I’m _ older than the Dreamcast. Does this mean you’ll stop with the nicknames now?”

“In your dreams, kid,” Jack replies cheekily. He eyes the closed door that leads to the workroom. “The bossman in the back?” he asks, trying for casual and undoubtedly failing.

Ethan smirks, and Jack sighs internally. “Yeah, he’s behind on a 360 because the Dreamcast sucked ass. Ha, that’s a new one. Suck-Ass Dreamcast.” He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke before turning shrewd eyes back on Jack. “Why, have you missed him, lover boy?”

“Shut up,” Jack hisses. The door’s not incredibly thin, but he’d rather die than have Mark overhear Ethan being a dumbass. He should probably be happy that Ethan’s been teasing him about this for a solid two months now, because if even Ethan, head-in-the-clouds-definitely-ADHD-sings-a-new-song-every-two-minutes-and-makes-you-repeat-most-things-twice-before-he-gets-it _Ethan,_ thinks there’s something between him and Mark, then there might be an actual possibility that there is. But he’s so damn obnoxious about it.

He’s met with a snicker. “I almost wish you two would stop dancing around each other already, but then I’d have to deal with all the PDA, and no thanks,” he says a little quieter, but Jack can still feel his face flaming.

“You’re the worst,” Jack groans, crossing his arms on the countertop and burrowing his face in them. “Somebody save me.”

“You have five seconds to stop being a baby and get in there before I enact a password and smack you every time you get it wrong.”

Jack immediately rushes around the counter and darts to the door. He’s not taking Ethan’s threat seriously at all, but it’s an excuse to see Mark sooner, so he’ll take it. He yanks it open without preamble, hurrying inside and nearly slamming it shut. He takes a breath to calm the sudden adrenaline rush before turning to face the room, at the center of which is a table with tools and various console parts spread about it in a stunning example of organized chaos. And sitting at it is a surprised Mark, blinking with raised eyebrows over where his glasses are perched low on his nose, his hair swept back messily like he’s been running his fingers through it. Jack’s heart squeezes painfully at the sight.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish, walking over to the corner where Chica is curled in her bed, thumping her tail in greeting. He scratches at her head, and then obliges her when she rolls to present her belly for pets. “Ethan’s being… Ethan.”

Mark snorts. “That’s shocking. I’m shocked.” He resumes concentrating on where he has the world’s tiniest pair of pliers buried in the innards of an Xbox 360. “He was actually very helpful with a different project earlier. That amount of focus really drains him, you know. Now he has to let out all the stupid that he was holding back.” He raises his voice at the end, clearly for Ethan’s benefit.

“Hey!” comes a muffled shout of protest from the other side of the door, followed by a thump against it.

Jack giggles, standing upright and making his way to sit opposite from Mark. “Ah, the old stupidity diarrhea,” he muses loudly, and the two laugh at the indignant squawking that arises from the other room.

Mark amusedly returns his attention to the Xbox. “So how was work? Still in a slower phase?” He glances at the clock, which reads 5:32 p.m. 

Jack grimaces. “Yeah, at this rate I’m gonna retire before the composer decides on a fuckin’ direction,” he sighs tiredly. “I hope we never hire this guy again. Music wouldn’t be half bad if we could actually get through  _ recording  _ it, never mind mixing or editing it.”

Mark nods sympathetically. “Do you prefer nose to the grindstone?” He points towards a tool on Jack’s side, and he hands it over automatically.

He shrugs. “Yes and no. During times like these I miss it. I’m sure you know what it’s like to get lost doing what you love.” Mark nods again. “But weeks of it can be a little much. I love my job, I just wish sometimes that it was a little more balanced in the pacing.”

Mark hums in agreement, pausing a moment before snorting.

“What?” Jack asks when it doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate.

Mark’s eyes never waver from where he’s tinkering with the console. “I just love learning about what’s behind the curtain. I don’t think anyone ever sits down to play a video game and can even remotely imagine all the effort it took to put the whole thing together, much less just the sound. It’s just funny to me, all the shit behind the scenes, all the grinding that happens, but if it’s a good product, no one ever really notices it. But that’s life, I guess.”

“Yeah, I can tell you it’s not exactly what I pictured sound design to be,” Jack laughs, something warm glowing in his chest at the semi-compliment. “You’re right, though, I don’t think anyone ever really knows what they’re signing up for in the grand scheme of things.”

Mark tilts his head in Jack’s direction, concurring, and they fall into a comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jack’s stomach makes itself known. They both laugh.

“On the plus side,” Jack says, standing up, “I can totally close with you tonight. I’ll grab us some food. Subway?” he asks, pausing at the door.

Mark’s looking at him in that soft, exasperated way of his, but they’ve had this argument a dozen times now, so he lets it be. “Sounds good. Thank you.”

Jack waves it off and leaves the room, letting Ethan know he’ll be back before slipping back outside and heading down the block towards sustenance.

It gives him time to second-guess himself, of course. There are still times when he wonders if maybe he’s forcing friendship on the American. He had kind of barged his way into his life and refused to leave.

A silent huff escapes him as he remembers when they first met. Jack had just moved from New York to Cincinnati for a new job, excited to break out of freelancing as well as live somewhere a little quieter, though not even close to his rural hometown in Ireland. He’d decided to explore the area a bit, and, having noticed Tiny Box Games during one of his walks to work, wanted to check it out first.

He’d been just as enchanted then as he is now, and he’d found himself attracted to Mark from the start. It was definitely ‘lust at first sight,’ and then, the more they’d talked, the more Jack had been drawn to his personality. He’s always been incredibly witty and smart, and Jack’s never met someone whose sense of humor resonates with his own so well. Not to mention that their shared love of video games had been the catalyst for a heated, though good-humored, debate on the  _ Resident Evil  _ franchise that had lasted for almost half an hour.

Their friendship had started off a little rocky, though. The second time Jack had visited (he’d forced himself to wait a week so as not to seem desperate), Mark had genuinely not recognized him, which had crushed him a bit inside. It made sense; Mark had plenty of customers, and it was to be expected that a thirty-minute conversation with Jack about essentially nothing would be forgotten. Mark had been quick to apologize, however, and his charm had quickly distracted the Irishman. Mark just has this way of looking at Jack like he genuinely cares about what he’s saying, and Jack swears he’d been honest-to-God flirting with him that evening, while discussing the  _ Red Dead Redemption  _ games of all things.

Mark’s always recognized him with every visit since, but there’s still an insecure part of him that thinks he’s just been humoring Jack this whole time and Jack’s just an idiot who doesn’t know how to read the room. Maybe the occasional flirting is all in his head, or Mark’s just a flirt in general. Why else would he never make a move? Despite a lot of it being a show of bravado for a laugh, Mark’s plenty confident in himself. He’s the one who lightheartedly pokes fun at Ethan for being indecisive and wishy-washy sometimes.

Which leads him to the more logical conclusion that while there’s a possibility that Mark doesn’t return Jack’s feelings, he still sees him as a friend. He wouldn’t let just any customer to go into the workroom or help with the shop or walk Chica, and he  _ definitely  _ wouldn’t hand out his personal number to someone he didn’t actually like (a thrill still goes through Jack every time he gets a text notification and sees Mark’s name). Jack wouldn’t be out getting them food right now if Mark wasn’t actually okay with it. He’s way too straightforward for that. Bullshit, he giveth and taketh it not.

Still, Jack enters Subway feeling like all he’s accomplished is making himself dizzy from all the circles he’s running through in his head. But it’s time to offer a polite smile to the sandwich artist. He knows everyone’s orders by heart, the process taking less than five minutes, and soon he’s back in the shop with his precious cargo. In the back room Mark clears off enough space on the table for the three of them, and they prop the door open to listen for the bell. Mark grabs Chica’s specialty dog food from the mini fridge (he spoils her endlessly) and transfers it to the bowl next to her bed before taking his seat, and all four of them dig in.

They idly chat about everything and nothing, as per usual, only interrupted twice by customers, which is a little slow for a Friday night. Chica begs prettily from afar, and Ethan eventually caves, giving her a nibble of bread and declaring that he’ll take her for her evening walk to do her business while Mark and Jack hold down the fort. Sometimes Mark is oddly insistent that he be the one to walk her, citing that he needs ‘fresh air,’ but he barely acknowledges Ethan with a nod tonight before returning to his rant about how the combination of Subway’s portion size and slogan is all a grand scheme to trick people into thinking that it’s a healthier alternative to McDonald’s. Jack joins in—he’s always enjoyed this particular game of Mark’s—and they easily pass the next twenty minutes closing. Ethan returns with Chica, and Mark lets him go fifteen minutes early, instructing him to flick off the ‘We’re Open!’ sign on his way out. It’s a rare occurrence, but Ethan has an exam to cram for on Monday and Mark is a big ol’ softie in disguise.

The conversation between Mark and Jack gradually tapers off while Mark counts the till, and Jack eyes the clock on his phone uneasily. 6:53. Seven minutes to man up. Anxiety tumbles about in his belly, and he has to read the headline of an email five times before it actually registers. Is he really doing this?

He should. Mark has this weekend off, and he won’t really be free for another two weeks after that, which is way too much time for Jack to convince himself that he’s a moron who needs to keep his mouth shut and be happy with what he has. Ethan has faith in them, and that has to count for something. He wouldn’t be constantly talking about Mark and Jack’s ‘chemistry’ if it didn’t exist, right? And you miss every shot you don’t take, or whatever the quote is.

Jack’s going to do it. He’s going to make a move, Mark will be receptive to it, and they will live happily ever after, the end. He just has to remember how to talk.

The room suddenly seems so much stuffier than it did a few minutes ago.

He glances up from where he’s staring blankly at his phone when the American turns away from the register to slide a $20 bill to him, quickly doing an about-face to go shut the light off in the workroom before Jack can protest. He hasn’t let him get away with buying dinner even once. Jack smiles and shakes his head, putting the bill in his wallet with shaky hands as Mark comes back out, shutting the door behind him. “Homeward bound,” he says, patting his legs as a signal for Chica to come so he can attach her leash.

“Actually,” Jack croaks, and oh fuck, he’s really doing this. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Mark looks up from where he’s scritching behind his dog’s ears, expectant, before seeming to take in the fact that Jack’s as stiff as a board, hands clasped together behind his back like he’s in the military or something. Smooth.

“Yeah?” he prompts warily, slowly standing upright again, and dear Jesus, Jack might pass out.

“So I was thinking,” he starts timidly, swallowing to try and alleviate the sudden dryness in his throat. “We should maybe go out sometime.” Holy shit, he said it. The words are out there, a physical thing that he can’t take back and Mark can’t unhear. They come out more like someone is holding a gun to his head than a flirty suggestion, but they’re there, hanging between them. But wait— “Like a date. Wecouldgooutonadate.”

Watching Mark’s reaction is like seeing a train wreck in slow motion. His eyes widen, his hands freezing mid-pet on Chica’s head, and his lips part in total shock, tipping slightly downward at the corners. Okay, so Mark definitely was not expecting this. Did not have the slightest inkling that Jack has a crush on him the size of the moon. Which means he probably doesn’t think about Jack like that, doesn’t feel the same way, oh God, burn him in a fire and send him straight to hell, it would probably be less torturous than this. Mark hasn’t uttered a single sound, but his thoughts are loud and clear, decimating every shred of Jack’s self-confidence in mere seconds.

“Or not! As a date!” he squeaks, backpedaling rapidly. “I’m totally cool with just hanging out! Or just pretending this never happened, either way, it’s all cool! It’s fine, really!” He steps back, and then again, when Mark maintains his statue imitation, the only sign of life being his rapidly blinking eyes. God, Jack has fucked this all up, hasn’t he? He’s been a selfish, stupid dick, and now he’s paying the price.

The crushing despair that starts in his chest before trickling an aching path down to sit heavy in his belly literally takes his breath away, and he pastes a manic grin on his face to hide it. Never, in all his thirty years, has he fallen so painfully hard for someone without any kind of romantic interaction, and the realization that he’s completely alone in the sentiment is nearly enough to make him sprint from the store and never look back.

But he apparently has a masochistic streak that’s been lying dormant within him, because he stays firmly rooted where he is, clenching every muscle in his body to keep from bolting out the door. Mark deserves better than him dumping this on him and then running when it doesn’t go his way. They’re both in their thirties. Jack can be an adult about this. He can hold himself together long enough for Mark to voice what his face has already plainly said.

It’s almost funny, a distant part of him muses. Had he known all those months ago, when he entered this shop for the first time, that he would develop a crush that would burn brighter and warmer with every visit, every shared laugh, every soft grin—a crush that would result in him willing his heart to fall out of his chest this very moment so he wouldn’t have to feel this agonizing humiliation and rejection, had he known that? He’s pretty sure he’d still be here, falling apart inside, because even with this horrified look on his face, Mark is still the most beautiful person he’s ever met, inside and out. And even though Jack’s pretty sure he’s just ruined their friendship, he can’t imagine having lived life without knowing the man.

It looks like he’s going to have to get used to it, because the seconds are stretching on and Mark still hasn’t said a word, actually looks like he’s about to puke.

And Jack’s an asshole because he truly cannot stand one more moment of this. “I-I’m just gonna, ah, go, then,” Jack says, barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

It’s like an out-of-body experience where he’s watching someone else turn and stride towards the door. He doesn’t feel his feet touching the ground, only sees the door growing bigger. His brain is filled with white noise, so he doesn’t immediately register Mark saying something, nor the weight that clasps on his shoulder and brings him to a halt. It’s only when he looks down and spots Mark’s strong hand holding onto him that sound rushes back, loud and jarring.

“—on, Jack, please just wait a minute,” Mark’s pleading. Jack feels Chica’s cold nose bump into his hand, and he woodenly twists back to face the man. Mark’s so nice, trying to let him down easy. Jack wishes he wouldn’t be. He just wants to go home and pretend he didn’t just flush one of the best friendships he’s ever had down the drain.

He’s surprised to note how wide and earnest Mark’s eyes are, but he really should have expected this. Mark’s a good friend. He wouldn’t want to hurt Jack, even with the truth.

“It’s fine, Mark, honestly,” he reassures him evenly, relieved that the words don’t sound as strangled as they feel ripping out of him.

Mark’s face pinches. “No, you don’t—just, _listen_ to me, Seán,” he growls, shaking him a bit with the hand still gripping his shoulder. 

Jack starts at hearing his real name on Mark’s lips, but Mark barrels on once he sees that he’s truly captured his attention. “I’m not, not saying  _ no,  _ I didn’t actually say  _ shit, _ which is my bad,” he admits, running an anxious hand through his hair. “You just really caught me off guard, is all. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Yeah, that was pretty obvious. Jack just wants him to skip to the part where he says they’re better off as friends so he can go eat his body weight in ice cream and call it a night.

“But!” Mark continues, flapping his free hand for emphasis. “That’s because I really, really like you, and I did not think in a million years that you felt that way, too.” His voice goes soft, vulnerable, and his eyes are locked on Jack’s.

His brain immediately screeches to a halt.  _ What?  _ “What?” he echoes, genuinely confused.

“Jack,” Mark laughs breathlessly, bringing his other hand up to mirror the one perched on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m gonna be honest, man: I’m a fucking idiot. I’m completely oblivious to this type of stuff. Especially because…” he trails off, biting his lip for a moment. He sighs. “Look. I’m not an easy guy to date. Dating has never really been an option for me, so I tend not to see when someone’s wanting that with me.” A grimace. “I’m not explaining this very well.”

Jack can feel the tiny spark of hope he’d had growing in his heart blow out with a tiny puff of smoke. “Not really, no,” he hedges. “Do you just want to be… friends?” What does that even mean, ‘dating hasn’t been an option’ for him? 

Mark shakes his head fervently, releasing Jack to hold out his hands. “No! I—I would love to go on a date with you, it’s just. My life is… complicated. And if we’re going to do this, I want to be honest about it, but it’s not something I’m very, uh, open about, and it’s, well, it’s hard for me.” Jack can see that, the way his eyes keep darting away from his, his arms crossing in a defensive gesture. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, mind racing through the possibilities. Is it medical? Family drama? Does he have some weirdass kink?

Mark lets out another explosive sigh. “Let me just—are you free tomorrow?”

“Yes?” Jack can’t keep up.

“Alright, great. Would you like to come to my place tomorrow night, and I’ll explain everything? Then you can decide if dating me is something you want to try.” His tone is calm, but Jack watches the way he hunches in on himself with a concerned gaze. Mark’s obviously insecure about whatever it is, and it’s worrisome.

“I’d really like that,” he replies softly, letting out a slow breath. He’s drained from emotional whiplash, but he can’t stand the sight of Mark so guarded. He’s never exactly been an open book, but the sheer amount of tension in his stance is foreign. “Can I hug you?”

Mark offers him the tiniest of smiles and nods, and Jack takes no time wrapping his arms around the other man and squeezing tight. Mark’s warm, and Jack would relish the embrace more if he weren’t so concerned. He remains there for a long moment, long enough for Mark to reciprocate, before pulling back somewhat. “We’re friends, Mark. I don’t think your… situation, whatever it is, will change that.” He holds his gaze, searching.

Mark’s eyes are achingly sad, his grip around Jack tightening almost painfully. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know, I've left you in suspense. I'm evil like that :D Also, please have mercy on me for not knowing what a career in sound design actually looks like. I took the info I found from the Berklee College of Music's website and faked my way through it lol. Comments are welcome, and constructive criticism is always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

They awkwardly part ways shortly after that disastrous discussion, Mark asking Jack to text him his address so he can pick him up the next day. Jack spends the rest of the night and the entirety of the following day nervously pondering what it could be that had Mark so hesitant. He genuinely doesn’t think it could possibly be anything horrible. Sure, he’s only hung out with Mark in the store, known him in one context, but he just _knows_ Mark isn’t an asshole. He loves to act like one sometimes, but it’s always in good humor.

But what could possibly explain his strange behavior last night? Ice fills his veins every time he returns to the worry that it could be cancer, or some other disease that might be threatening his life, and maybe he doesn’t date to spare other people the grief. It’s too late for Jack, if that’s the case. Tears already threaten every time he thinks about it, dread tightening in his chest.

He needs to stop overthinking. It’s getting him nowhere but closer to a panic attack.

His condo is spotless from stress cleaning by the time his phone alarm goes off at five minutes to four. He debates between throwing on an old comfy t-shirt or a nicer henley. It’s not really a date, right? He puts the henley on anyway, smoothing his hair back and spritzing on some cologne. When he immediately starts second-guessing everything he forcefully makes himself leave the premises, heading down to wait for Mark out front.

The timing is perfect. Jack exits the building just in time to see the familiar white van that Mark’s affectionately dubbed ‘the Barrel’ pull into the parking lot. He waves him over and hops in when the American comes to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” he greets, setting the plastic bag he’s brought with him between his feet before pulling the door shut behind him and buckling his seat belt.

“Hello,” Mark sing-songs, eyeing the bag quizzically.

“Oh, I brought snacks. Because food improves basically every situation,” he says, hoping it’s more funny than awkward to hint at the elephant in the room. Er, van.

“That is a fact,” Mark easily agrees, pulling out onto the road. Jack takes a moment to admire the short-sleeved maroon button-up and dark wash jeans he’s wearing. They cling to him nicely—he could make a burlap sack look like fashion. It’s comforting that he’s more dressed up than usual; Jack’s not alone.

He catches himself when Mark throws a glance his way, and he rushes to bury the moment. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way, you didn’t have to do that. Unless the secret is that you’re a serial killer and this makes it easier to hide my body.”

Mark chokes on a breath, his face the dictionary definition of shock for a moment before he begins to cackle. Jack joins in, and they spend a good minute just laughing. They gradually settle down, and he’s left feeling more at ease than he’s been in nearly twenty-four hours. It’s a relief to know that their dynamic hasn’t been irreparably damaged by the night before.

“Nah, man,” Mark finally answers after composing himself. He takes a breath like he’s about to continue, but Jack immediately jumps in.

“You’re right, it’s too hot for that shit.” It is. Ohio in July is some of the muggiest weather he’s ever experienced, and he’s kind of regretting the henley—the Barrel’s air conditioning is something a little less than top-notch. “My corpse would get smelly like a thousand times faster. You’d never get the smell of baked potato out of here.”

That sets off another round of giggles, which turns into a pondering debate of who all else Mark would have to kill to make it smell like Thanksgiving in the Barrel: “Listen, I know it’s not tradition, but hear me out—Felix would make for some great Swedish meatballs.” 

It’s another five minutes before Mark begs mercy, making the act of driving look painful as he attempts to rein in his laughter. “No, but seriously,” he says, voice returning to its normal register. “I wasn’t gonna make you pay for an Uber to my place. I’m happy to drive. Besides, I should be thanking you for agreeing to this with literally nothing to go on. I wasn’t meaning to be, but I was kind of a dick about it.”

“I didn’t think so,” Jack disagrees. “Sure, this is still pretty vague and confusing, but we’re friends, Mark, and I trust that you’ll clear it up.” He focuses on where his finger idly traces patterns into the fabric of his jeans. His family was never really open about this kind of stuff, and as much as he believes he’s improved his ability to share his feelings, he’s still not quite used to it, struggling against the uncomfortable squirming sensation in his stomach.

“Still, thank you for coming. I don’t think a lot of people would’ve after the tragedy that was our last conversation.” The sincerity in Mark’s voice, mixed with the self-deprecating huff he adds at the end, brings a soft smile to Jack’s face.

“Of course.” They fall into an easy silence, and it’s only a few more minutes before the city fades into the distance, morphing into a horizon of trees surrounding the highway. Jack enjoys the view until Mark takes an exit, making a couple turns and pulling onto a road with some sparsely scattered houses on it. Then they’re suddenly turning into a driveway surrounded by trees on all sides so that it’s impossible to see the house from the road. Finally, after about thirty seconds, Jack spots a building ahead of them.

“Jesus, I was kidding about the serial killer thing,” he jokes, admiring the house as they approach it. It’s a pretty good size for a single person, though not so big that it looks too lonely. In fact, something about the staggered planks of wood that function as siding, painted an earthy brown, is undeniably charming to Jack. The same goes for the mismatched brick chimney. There are an abundance of large windows with drawn blinds, but Jack imagines how enchanting it must be when they’re pulled back. It’s rustic, quaint, like it’s part of the natural landscape rather than jutting out of it. The complete opposite aesthetic of Tiny Box Games, which is firmly ingrained into the cityscape, but the welcoming atmosphere of the store has translated well here, characterizing it as distinctly Mark’s. Jack loves it.

“Yeah, I like privacy, what can I say,” Mark says, pressing a button on the remote attached to his sun visor to open the garage. The fence spanning the property in addition to the forest of trees suggests that Mark is, indeed, a private guy.

“Well, you deal with enough people at the store to warrant that, I think,” Jack replies as Mark parks the van, using the remote to close the garage door again.

Mark snorts, unbuckling and hopping out. Jack grabs his bag and follows. Mark leads him up a handful of steps and through a door, which turns out to lead into the laundry room. The American toes off his shoes and Jack does the same, leaving them on a mat before trailing after him through an open door into a dining room and kitchen area. Chica’s heard them enter and makes a beeline for Jack, her entire body wiggling in excitement. “Hello, there, Chica-Chica-boof-boof,” he croons, bending to pet her and talk more nonsense at her.

Indulging them for a few moments, Mark watches in amusement. “I’ll just leave you two to it, then,” he says wryly, stepping back like he’s about to sneak away.

“Perfect,” Jack remarks, barely sparing him a glance. “That was my real plan all along—stealing your dog.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a package of dog treats he’d bought earlier, enjoying the laughter that elicits. He holds it up so Mark can check the brand, tearing it open when he receives a nod. Chica’s tail reaches supersonic speeds when she catches on, and Jack delightedly presents her with two treats that she immediately wolfs down. He pats her one last time before heading in the direction of where he assumes the sink must be, victorious when he rounds the corner and spies it. He doesn’t really mind a smidge of Chica slobber, but the scent of the dog treats is quite strong and he’s eager to rinse it off. He sets his bag on the counter and turns on the faucet.

“I think you’ve successfully stolen her heart,” Mark comments while Jack washes his hands, and he doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Chica’s followed him, her nails clacking on the hardwood floor. 

“Or at least her stomach, which is close enough,” he laughs, turning off the faucet and drying his hands.

“Betrayed on both sides,” Mark laments dramatically, gesturing to where Chica sits expectantly by Jack, her tail wagging steadily. However, Chica’s attention quickly shifts to him when he begins fake-blubbering, and she rushes over to reassure him.

“Aww,” Jack coos as Mark’s burst of laughter forces him to drop the act. He watches the American shower her in affection with a soft smile. Is this what baby fever is like for women? He wants to adopt like five dogs just to watch Mark interact with them.

Assuming they’re still friends after today.

“Okay, okay, Chica, I think you’ve had your hourly quota of attention, don’t you think?” Mark tells her eventually, standing upright and interrupting the spiraling mess that Jack’s brain had managed to get itself into in a matter of seconds. “So, uh, yeah, this is the kitchen,” he says to Jack, gesturing. 

Jack admires the wood accents and warm colors, the muted cream of the walls brightening the area significantly. “Did you paint this?”

Mark shakes his head vehemently with a snort. “No, color theory is definitely not my thing. I bought the place like this from an older couple who built it decades ago. I haven’t really changed much besides the furniture. Oh, and the floors. Wasn’t really into the seventies shag carpet.”

He nods, sparing one last glance around the room before looking at Mark. “House tour?” He knows part of him is stalling the inevitable, but he’s also genuinely interested in seeing the rest of Mark’s home. 

So Mark spends the next ten minutes showing him around while they chat. Jack’s favorite room by far is the study upstairs, which is a more refined version of the store’s workroom. There’s a couple fun plushies and video game character figurines on the shelves, but Jack’s more fascinated by the massive display of _Warhammer_ books hiding in the corner. “Jesus, is this all of them?”

“Yep,” he admits proudly, eyeing the shelves like they hold his firstborn.

“Aren’t there, like, several hundred?” Jack asks, eyes wide. It certainly looks like there’s a lot of them, but _damn._ He’s always wished that he enjoyed reading more because he loves seeing personal libraries, so Mark’s dedication is impressive.

“Closer to five hundred,” he answers smugly, and Jack doesn’t know what else to do other than offer him a slow clap, and Mark chuckles, waving him off.

“When did you start collecting them? Did you have to move in with all these?” Mark had mentioned that he’s had the house for three years, and Jack can’t imagine how many boxes they must’ve filled.

“No, I didn’t really start collecting until I moved here. I started reading them about ten years ago, after playing the game, and I read as many as I could get my hands on from the library, but my apartment was tiny and I had the bigger goal of starting the store to put my money into. It was always a dream of mine, though, to own all of them once I had my own place, so I pretty much started right away once I was settled in, and I just got the last few I was missing a couple months ago,” he muses, pointing out the books that Jack assumes were the missing pieces to his collection.

“Good for you, man,” Jack says sincerely. “I wish I were a book person. I can never seem to get sucked into them. Not enough stimuli or something.”

Mark shrugs. “Hey, you save more money that way.”

“Or spend more money on video games,” Jack points out, and Mark tilts his head in agreement.

“Works for me,” he says, stretching, and Jack catches a glimpse of his toned belly when his shirt rides up. “That just means more cash in my pockets.”

Jack gives an amused huff. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course not,” Mark play-boasts, flexing his arms and sending him a wink, which absolutely _does not_ make a flurry of butterflies erupt in his stomach. He’d definitely picked up on Jack’s ogling.

Mark drops his arms after a moment, letting out a long breath as his expression turns serious. “Well, that’s the house. If you wanna head down to the living room, I just need to grab something and we’ll get this started.”

Jack nods, ignoring the pang of nerves that goes through him. He makes his way down the stairs and grabs his bag of snacks from the kitchen before settling on the couch. He’s only left to wait for a few seconds before Mark joins him, laptop in hand. He sits next to Jack, fingers drumming on the computer as he stares into space.

“Mark?” he murmurs, repeating louder when he doesn’t snap out of it. The American starts slightly, blinking rapidly. Jack’s concern ebbs away when he turns and offers him a very obviously forced smile. Mark’s always been a little spacey.

“Sorry,” he sighs. “I’m just nervous, to tell you the truth, and that’s not really helping the, uh, situation.” He flips open the laptop and types in his password.

“Well, I’m not exactly _zen_ right now either,” Jack laughs nervously. He holds up his bag. “But snacks! They make the world go round!” He rifles through it. “Whaddaya want? I’ve got Doritos, pretzels, Oreos, Twizzlers, Sour Patch Kids, Reese’s—”

Mark physically blanches. “Oh, I actually can’t—can’t have Reese’s. Peanuts. I’m allergic.”

Jack pauses for a moment before he gasps, literally throwing the bag on the floor. _“What?!_ Why am I just now—”

“Okay, not _that_ allergic, jeez—”

“—learning this, Mark Fishbach? I’ve gotten you so much food! I could’ve killed you!”

Mark laughs, and Jack glares at him. “Dude, you already knew Ethan was allergic, so you were always ordering with that in mind. It just never really came up.”

“Except when Ethan told me he was allergic and you were right there!” he scolds, kneeling down and dumping the contents of the bag on the floor before shoving all the obviously nut-containing snacks back in it. Once that’s done, he picks up the sleeve of Oreos and begins reading through the ingredients list. The commotion summons Chica, and she sniffs interestedly at the packages.

“Hey, c’mon, that’s not really necessary. Mine’s not as bad as Ethan’s, ‘m not gonna die from it,” he reassures, joining Jack on the floor. “No, Chica. Here, just give me the Sour Patch Kids, those are fine.”

Jack hands them over with a pout. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he soothes, sending him an apologetic smile.

Jack rolls his eyes fondly before settling on the package of Twizzlers, double-checking that they’re nut-free before a thought occurs to him. He turns to Mark with a grin. “Wait, that wasn’t the big secret, was it? Because if it was, you’re right. I don’t know if I’m ready to devote myself to a life without peanut butter. I’m not sure if you’re worth it.”

Mark’s shoulders shake with laughter, and he hunches over where he’d been attempting to pry open his candy. “No,” he croaks with mirth. “Can you imagine? Doing all this? Just to tell you that?” His voice has gone squeaky, causing Jack to join in.

“Pretty sure that’d be my sign that the stars are _so_ not aligned for this,” he quips breathlessly, laughing harder when Mark covers his face with his hands in a sorry attempt to muffle his resulting guffaw.

It takes them a minute, but they finally settle down into some semblance of calm, the looming threat of Mark’s secret weighing over them like a physical presence in the room.

“Should we get this over with?” Jack asks around a mouthful of Twizzler. He doesn’t think he can ignore the tension for much longer, as much as they’d obviously both like to. And that’s the scary thing, that Mark clearly doesn’t want to be doing this either. He’s been acting like Jack might never want to look at him again after this. It doesn’t exactly instill confidence.

Mark blows out a long breath, looking down. “Yeah,” he muses. “Yeah.”

They both climb back onto the couch, and Mark returns to typing on his laptop. Jack anxiously twirls his candy between his fingers, trying to focus on that instead of letting himself ponder what’s about to happen.

After what seems like an extraordinarily long period of time, Mark looks up from the screen and turns to face him. “So. The reason I didn’t just tell you this last night is because I really wasn’t prepared. I never in a million years would’ve guessed that you felt the same way as me.” He meets Jack’s eyes unflinchingly, and he can feel the tips of his ears growing hot, his heart fluttering in his chest.

Mark sighs, biting at his lip. “So I wasn’t ready to tell you this, which means I had no idea where to even start. There aren’t a lot of people who know this about me, and the last time I tried to explain it to someone I was dating, they… didn’t take it very well.”

Jack nods. He still has no idea what Mark’s talking about, but he can see why he wanted to wait.

“I spent a lot of time today,” he continues, swallowing thickly, “trying to figure out the ideal way to tell you this, and I finally decided that it would probably be best to let you read about it first, and then I can fill in some gaps.” He rigidly begins to hand over the laptop, but Jack stops him with a soft touch on his hand, his fingers soothing over where the knuckles are taut and white.

“Mark,” he says quietly, holding his wary gaze. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” He knows it’s probably not smart to promise that when he’s not even really sure what he’s agreeing to, but other than last night, he’s never seen the American so terrified. It just doesn’t sit right with him.

Mark offers him a stiff, unconvincing nod before shoving the laptop into his hands. “I highlighted the most important bits, but feel free to read it all. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” He sits back and begins to fidget with his bag of candy, his shoulders and bouncing foot belying his tension. Chica rests her head on his knee, seemingly picking up on his nervousness.

Turning to the screen with trepidation, Jack sees that it’s a PDF file of screenshots from [ a webpage ](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/dissociative-disorders/symptoms-causes/syc-20355215) from the Mayo Clinic website. It’s about ‘Dissociative disorders.’ He scrolls down and starts to read the first highlighted section.

 **_Overview:_ ** _Dissociative disorders are mental disorders that involve experiencing a disconnection and lack of continuity between thoughts, memories, surroundings, actions and identity. People with dissociative disorders escape reality in ways that are involuntary and unhealthy and cause problems with functioning in everyday life._

 _Dissociative disorders usually develop as a reaction to trauma and help keep difficult memories at bay. Symptoms_ _—ranging from amnesia to alternate identities—depend in part on the type of dissociative disorder you have. Times of stress can temporarily worsen symptoms, making them more obvious._

Jack’s brow furrows. Alternate identities?

_Treatment for dissociative disorders may include talk therapy (psychotherapy) and medication. Although treating dissociative disorders can be difficult, many people learn new ways of coping and lead healthy, productive lives._

**_Symptoms:_ ** _Signs and symptoms depend on the type of dissociative disorders you have, but may include:_

  * _Memory loss (amnesia) of certain time periods, events, people and personal information_


  * _A sense of being detached from yourself and your emotions_


  * _A perception of the people and things around you as distorted and unreal_


  * _A blurred sense of identity_


  * _Significant stress or problems in your relationships, work or other important areas of your life_


  * _Inability to cope well with emotional or professional stress_


  * _Mental health problems, such as depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts and behaviors_



Jack’s still not entirely sure what he’s reading—Mark’s always seemed to know who he was whenever Jack’s seen him—but he keeps going. It continues on to say that there are three different types of major dissociative disorders that are recognized, but there’s only one highlighted, so he reads that.

 **_Dissociative identity disorder:_ ** _Formerly known as multiple personality disorder, this disorder is characterized by “switching” to alternate identities. You may feel the presence of two or more people talking or living inside your head, and you may feel as though you’re possessed by other identities. Each identity may have a unique name, personal history and characteristics, including obvious differences in voice, gender, mannerisms and even such physical qualities as the need for eyeglasses. There also are differences in how familiar each identity is with the others. People with dissociative identity disorder typically also have dissociative amnesia and often have dissociative fugue._

Jack pauses for a moment, backtracking to make sure he’s understood it correctly. He’s shocked to say the least—he would’ve _never_ guessed that Mark struggled with anything like this—but he continues reading to see if there are answers to the dozens of questions running through his mind.

 **_Causes:_ ** _Dissociative disorders usually develop as a way to cope with trauma. The disorders most often form in children subjected to long-term physical, sexual or emotional abuse or, less often, a home environment that’s frightening or highly unpredictable. The stress of war or natural disasters also can bring on dissociative disorders._

_Personal identity is still forming during childhood. So a child is more able than an adult to step outside of himself or herself and observe trauma as though it’s happening to a different person. A child who learns to dissociate in order to endure a traumatic experience may use this coping mechanism in response to stressful situations throughout life._

Jack blinks, feeling sick. There are a couple more sections on the page, but that’s the last of the highlighted stuff, and he needs to process a few things before he attempts to learn anything else. He sits back, staring in the direction of the fireplace while his thoughts race a million miles an hour. He hadn’t known what to expect coming here today, but it certainly wasn’t anything like this. The last two paragraphs especially… he thinks back to Mark’s favorite charity, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest.

“Jack?” Mark whispers, startling the Irishman. He must have zoned out for a while. “Please say something.” His voice is a low, broken grating of vocal cords, and Jack can see fear etched into the lines of his face.

“Sorry, I-I didn’t mean to—it’s a lot,” Jack starts around the thick lump that’s formed in his throat, not even knowing where to begin.

“It is,” Mark agrees somberly. Jack absently watches Chica lick at Mark’s fingers while he tries to organize his thoughts.

“So you have this dis-dissoc—” he squints at the screen, “dissociative identity disorder?” It’s a dumb question, but Jack is struggling to form words right now, so he counts it as a win.

Mark nods. “For as long as I can remember.” It sounds like a bitter joke, the way he says it, but Jack lets it go, only able to deal with so much confusion at once.

“And that means there are—voices?—in your head? Other people?”

Mark’s head bobs side to side in a _yes and no_ motion. “Sort of,” he answers, booping at Chica’s nose. “I actually don’t hear them constantly, when I’m—when I’m, uh, the one who’s present. And it’s not just in my head. When I’m not the one in control, a completely different person is walking around and doing things, and then I’m one of the ‘voices.’” His gaze is firmly trained on the dog attempting to worm her way into his lap.

Jack stares at him, attempting to understand.

The American sighs. “The best example I can think of is kinda dumb, but I think it works.” He sits up and kindly shoos Chica before turning towards Jack, still avoiding eye contact for the most part. “So you remember those multicolor pens everyone had as a kid? They were usually sold at like the school book fair and were about yea thick” —he holds up his thumb— “and they had switches that you could press down to swap out the colors?”

Jack nods.

“So having dissociative identity disorder, or DID, is like being a multicolor pen, except you can’t really choose what color you’re using at any given time. The switches are mostly random. But either way, blue is blue and has nothing to do with the color red, or yellow, or whatever. They are all separate colors inside the same pen.”

Because his brain hasn’t made it past the point of kindergarten, it’s that explanation that finally gets through to Jack. “Oh,” he breathes. “But then why have I only ever seen you?” He thinks he’d notice if Mark suddenly decided he wanted to be called Shakira and started dancing on the shop’s countertops or something.

Mark swallows. “You haven’t. You’ve actually unofficially met at least one alter—meaning alternate identity—that I know of. He just hasn’t introduced himself because, well, that’d be awkward if you didn’t even know about it. You’d probably think it was a joke, or that I was being an asshole.” He sends the carpet a self-deprecating smile.

“I’ve met someone else?” Jack wonders aloud, wracking his brain. “Wait, what do you mean, that you know of? Can’t you see when someone else is in charge?”

“Fronting,” Mark says, rushing to explain at Jack’s quizzical brow. “That’s the popular term people use instead of saying ‘in charge.’ Like right now, I, Mark, am fronting. I’m in control of the body. And no,” he continues, running a hand through his hair. “Most of the time, it works the same way as it does with like, you and me. If I go in the other room and, I don’t know, tip over a chair and come back and ask you what I just did, you’d have no idea. That’s the amnesia that the website was talking about. For example, if I’m making breakfast and I switch—someone else fronts—and they decide they’re not hungry, they can just stop and go do whatever they want. The next time I front might be that night, and I come to in bed with no idea how I got there or what happened to my pancakes.” It’s a weak joke, but Jack’s too horrified to even try to humor him.

“That sounds so scary,” he frets shrilly, hugging his arms around himself. 

“It can be,” Mark agrees. “I’ve had a long time to learn how to cope with it, and you’re not always completely in the dark. There are times where another alter can see what I’m doing or front with me, or vice versa.”

“But do you all get along? What’s to stop someone else—”

“Another alter.”

“—another alter from like, fucking your life up just because they want to? Or deciding to go skydiving or something?”

“Well first,” Mark begins, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s not really that simple. Everyone within our system—that’s another term, system, which is our group of alters in the body—” he gestures at himself “—everyone is their own complex, individual person. It doesn’t generally boil down to ‘just because I want to’ in something that serious. They’d have their reasoning for it. But it is a valid question.” His fingers weave together and separate, over and over while he stares at them. “At this point in my life, I’m fortunate enough to have alters that more or less get along with and are able to communicate with each other, and I’ve been to therapy that has helped _tremendously_ with that. Ten years ago was a different story. Everyone was a lot more resentful of each other, and we switched a lot more back then. College was hell because of all the important assignments and presentations and meetings and tests, with no guarantee that the same person who rehearsed for them was going to be fronting when they happened. But then I was able to go to therapy, and we learned how to work with each other, instead of against.” He looks up at Jack with a tired smile, tapping at his temple. “It’s no way to live, constantly at war and never able to get away from it. The system has to work to keep the machine running. If someone doesn’t do their part, we all get burned.” 

Jack nods and grabs a Twizzler, biting it and chewing slowly just for something to do. “So why ‘Mark’?” he asks. “If there’re so many of you, why do you, Mark, own the store and introduce yourself as Mark instead of some other alter? Who decides that?”

Mark straightens like he’s been expecting this question. “So every alter plays a role in the system.” He plants a hand over his chest. “Mine is to be the main host, or the person who fronts the most. There’s another host…” he trails off, eyes glazing over for a few moments before he scrubs at his face. “...who is not being particularly helpful right now,” he mutters slowly, hands over his eyes. “Not now,” he hisses, seemingly to himself.

“Is he—is he trying to front?” Jack asks uncertainly, not knowing how to feel when Mark nods into his hands. It’s not quite trepidation digging into his sternum. He’s not afraid of the alter—Mark hasn’t given him any reason to be. But he’s pretty much flying blind right now, having just learned about the disorder not even ten minutes ago, and he can’t help but feel like he’s about to be thrown into the deep end after receiving a thirty-second explanation of the theory of the doggy paddle. There’s a high risk of him fucking this up someway, somehow.

“Okay,” he squeaks, stiff as a board. Bizarrely, other than the impending meeting, his primary concern is what he’s supposed to be doing with his hands. He wants to rub them along his thighs in a self-soothing motion, but that’s weird, and clasping them together seems too serious. He settles for sitting on them to hide how jittery he is, his fingernails digging into the undersides of his thighs while Mark—Mark?—remains hunched over.

Finally the American sits up, blinking profusely. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “He’s pretty excited. But we’ve made an agreement, so we should be able to at least finish our conversation.” Mark looks over at him, taking in Jack’s posture and appearing crestfallen.

“Jack,” he says, sounding pained. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“No!” The Irishman blurts, holding up his hands. “I’m not afraid! I just, er, panicked a little.”

Mark looks anything but reassured.

“But not because of you! Or, anyone else in the system,” he’s quick to defend. “I just, I don’t want to mess it up somehow. I mean—what if he doesn’t like me?” It’s a fear that manifested quickly after Mark explained the whole multicolor pen thing. Jack hadn’t been prepared to play ‘meet the parents’ (friends? family? How do the alters view each other?) on such short notice. And in this case, it’s not exactly a simple fix of just visiting on the holidays if they don’t like Jack. Mark literally lives with them.

Mark looks befuddled for a moment before a sudden bark of laughter tears out of him. It’s not his usual ridiculous guffaw, but instead deeper, warmer, from the chest. “Oh, _he_ likes you fine, darlin’,” he drawls, but it sounds off somehow, more suave than Jack’s used to hearing. Even more confusing is that he’s _heard_ that voice before. He blinks questioningly, and Mark stares at a point over his shoulder, his expression morphing from open and teasing to something pinched and annoyed.

“H-Hello?” He waves a hand in front of Mark’s face, drawing his attention back.

“Sorry,” Mark sighs. “He’s _supposed_ to be co- _con_ right now,” he mutters pointedly, looking down.

“Co-what?”

“Co-conscious. That’s the word for what I was talking about earlier, when another alter is aware of what the fronter is doing. There’s also co-hosting, which is when two alters front at the same time. It’s not really conducive to what I’m trying to do here.” Again, the last bit doesn’t sound like it’s directed at him.

“Uh-huh,” he supplies. It feels like his brain is breakdancing in his skull, there’s so much information coming in at once.

Mark’s expression softens, and he places a hand on Jack’s knee. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot. Believe me, I do. I can’t even believe you haven’t run screaming yet.” Jack doesn’t like the self-deprecating tone in his voice.

He covers Mark’s hand with his own. “It’s definitely a bit harder than learning the multiplication tables,” he jokes, internally congratulating himself when Mark snorts. “But I’m willing to learn. I wouldnt’ve come if I wasn’t ready to listen. Nothing you’ve told me so far has been too much. I just need a minute to process it all. Slow learner, here,” he chuckles.

“Really?” Mark asks, the single word layered in amazement. “You’re not weirded out?”

Jack can see the fragile tendril of hope glimmering in his eyes, and he will be damned if he crushes it. “No. I told you, we’re friends. We’ve been friends for months, and you’ve had this disorder the whole time. You’re still Mark, and I,” he gulps around a dry throat, “I really like you. I’d like to learn more about you, in any capacity.”

He’s met with a shy smile. “Thank you,” Mark replies softly, squeezing his hand. “That means a lot to me.”

Jack nods, and Mark releases his hand and leans back, the heat of his touch belatedly zinging up Jack’s arm. “Now, what was I saying?”

“The roles,” Jack supplies after mentally backtracking. “But first—is that usually what happens when you’re, uh, switching? The whole, zoning out, blinking thing?”

“Pretty much. I’m not really aware that I’m doing it. It’s called dissociating; hence the name. It feels like I’m being submerged under water, all my senses are dulled. It gets worse when I’m trying to fight it. I’m not sure how well you’d be able to tell that it’s happening on a day to day basis.” He shrugs.

“Oh! Another question,” he pipes up, smiling ruefully at the American, but Mark just makes a _go on_ gesture with his hand. “About how many times a day do you switch?”

He blows out a breath. “It honestly depends. Sometimes I go for a week without switching, other times it can be as many as like, fifteen in a day, but that’s pretty rare and is usually when I’m really stressed out. Stress is a huge factor in it. The past couple days have been like, two or three times a day. Except yesterday,” he trails off, wincing like he hadn’t meant to add the last part.

It’s not hard to connect the dots, and Jack frowns guiltily. It’s because he was nervous about this. He pictures Mark here, sitting on the couch, head in his hands while going through switch after switch as he made himself sick with worry. He feels like a piece of shit, but he also doesn’t think Mark would appreciate him apologizing for asking him out and starting all this. And then something else occurs to him.

“Oh my God, you weren’t switching while driving, were you? There’s no way that’s safe!”

Mark’s shaking his head before he’s finished. “No, I’m very careful about that. I do my best to broadcast to everyone else that I’m going to be driving, and I always pull over if I ever think I might be dissociating. And because I’m the main host, I am better at keeping the front. It’s not foolproof, but I’ve never even come close to an accident,” he reassures Jack with a grin.

“Okay,” Jack breathes, relieved. The moment doesn’t last long, however, before Mark grimaces, his eyes pinching shut as he rubs at his temples. “What’s wrong?”

“Jack, I’m sorry,” Mark starts faintly. “He really wants to front, and I can’t—I can’t keep putting it off. I try not to block anybody if I don’t absolutely need to.” His voice is slurring, sounding drugged, and he’s rushing through his words like he can’t get them out fast enough. “He should be able to answer the rest of your questions, but I get it if you don’t want to meet him. You can go hang out in my office, and I can come get you when I’m back.”

Jack’s nerves return tenfold, but the need to reassure Mark is stronger. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to him, and I’ll be here when you switch back.”

“‘Kay,” Mark breathes, his eyes opening and his face smoothing into something blank. His gaze is unfocused for a few seconds as he stares towards the wall, but then it focuses and he blinks rapidly. Jack watches, his breath caught in his lungs as the new alter slowly straightens, his shoulders loosening into an easy confidence. He looks around the room and then down at himself, taking in his outfit for a small eternity before he suddenly turns to face Jack, eyes gleaming with a self-satisfied glint. 

A slow grin crawls up his face as he appraises the Irishman, quirking a single eyebrow before opening his mouth: “Good to see you, Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this scene was supposed to be one chapter, but my fingers had other ideas and typed a lot more than I had originally planned. Whoops! Any guesses about who's crashed the party?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you realize that the fic that started off as 10k in your head is definitely going to more than double that number by like, a lot lol

“Good to see you, Jack.”

Jack sits there, blinking for a few moments. He knows that voice. Of course he knows that voice, it’s Mark’s, but this is different from his typical timbre. And he recognizes it. “Uh, you too?”

That elicits a chuckle, and like before, it’s deeper, from the chest. “Look at your Bambi eyes. You’ve never been nervous to see me before,” he drawls teasingly with a playful smirk. “I know I’m better-looking than Mark, but there’s no need to get so flustered, darlin’.” 

Of course that triggers a blush, not because of the words themselves (well, maybe a little), but because Jack realizes he definitely _has_ unknowingly met this alter before. Several times, in fact. The slightly lower, charming purr that manages to make almost anything sound sultry is unmistakeable. Jack just always thought it was Mark being goofy and flirty. Having the information he does now, Jack’s amazed he’s never noticed that this alter’s entire demeanor is significantly different from Mark’s, from the casual certainty set in the slope of his shoulders to the appraising, slightly tilted way he holds his head, and especially the aloof air of interest shining in his eyes. Mark’s bravado bit that he loves has nothing on this, and it’s only been like, thirty seconds.

“Well, this is pretty new to me,” he defends lightly, willing his cheeks to cool down. “What’s your name?” He’s assuming they all have their own names; he’s in for a hell of a time if they all go by Mark.

“Illinois,” he replies, sticking out a hand that Jack takes, noting the firm grip. “Pleasure to meet me, I know.”

Jack snorts, quickly getting over his surprise at the strange name. “Awfully confident, aren’t ya?” His anxiety is decreasing by the second, at ease in the familiar presence. The film _Split_ is the only hazy background knowledge he has on this disorder, and he’s not at all sure of how accurate that depiction is, so it’s a relief that Illinois doesn’t seem too eccentric compared to Mark.

Illinois’ smirk grows into something more cocky, and yeah, Jack’s definitely not used to seeing someone else wear Mark’s face. “Of course,” he hums, abruptly standing up and tugging Jack along before finally releasing his hand. “One of us ought to be.”

The beginnings of a scowl start to cloud over Jack’s face before he realizes that Illinois had waved a flippant hand at himself as he said it. He must have been referring to the system, then. He trails after the casanova, who’s leisurely making his way towards the dining room area.

“Care for a walk?” Illinois asks, gesturing towards the backyard through the sliding glass door. “I know I’m supposed to be explaining some things to you, and I think the fresh air will do us some good.”

“Sure,” Jack agrees. “Let me just go get my shoes.”

Illinois is tying on a pair of hiking boots when Jack returns, and it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s standing up and grabbing a sable fedora that Jack hadn’t noticed was hanging from a coat rack near the door. He puts it on and lets out a high whistle, summoning Chica from where they’d left her curled up near the fireplace. “Shall we?” he says, hand paused on the handle as he looks over at Jack.

“Lead on,” he huffs in amusement. The guy’s just so effortlessly amiable.

He follows Illinois and Chica out into the yard, sliding the door shut behind him. He’s surprised to find an expansive flower garden surrounding the patio, though he’s useless at naming any of them. Sunflowers, roses, and tulips are about all he’s got, and he thinks he spies the last two weaving in and out among what must be a dozen other kinds. “Holy shit,” he breathes, impressed.

Illinois turns to him with a questioning look before following his gaze. “Ah, yes. Mine and Eric’s pride and joy. I taught the kid how to treat ‘em right, and he soaked up every word. Checks on them every day. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Jack nods fervently, though inside he’s reeling from the casual mention of someone who he can only assume is another alter. “Eric?” he asks interestedly. 

“He’s part of the system,” Illinois clarifies, leading Jack down a handful of steps so he can admire the flowers at a better angle. “Shy kid. Well, he’s not _really_ a kid. Probably somewhere around Ethan’s age.” He shrugs.

“Wait, what?” Jack sputters. “You’re not all, uh, thirty-one?”

“Not at all,” Illinois scoffs. “First, we all have different birthdays, but that doesn’t really mean anything, either. Yancy’s my twin, but he’s Mark’s age and I’m in my forties. A real silver fox.” He winks unironically.

Oh, God, one more name to try and remember—how many alters are there? Also, _what?_ “How can you be twins, then?”

Another shrug. “We both came into existence on October 30th. Yancy was Mark’s age, but I’ve been the same age that I am now from the start. Alters don’t have to age with the body, don’t have to age at all. Some, like Wilford, even slide back and forth depending on the moment. Time’s a funny thing with him.” He caresses the petal of a light pink flower, smiling gently.

This tidbit of information is for some reason more shocking than anything else he’s learned so far, and it takes him a minute to wrap his head around the idea of Mark suddenly talking like a ninety-year-old after a switch. He hardly notes that Illinois has just mentioned yet another alter. “Does Mark, y’know, change ages?”

Illinois shakes his head. “Mark’s the core—he was the original identity born with the body, so he ages with it.”

Jack blows out a relieved breath. He’s not really into old geezers. And definitely not children. Speaking of: “Is there such a thing as kid alters?”

He receives an affirmative hum. “Littles, they’re called. We just have the one, though, which is fortunate. Littles are obviously less stable, and it can be dangerous if they front in public. I don’t mind a little danger, but littles can’t take care of themselves, much less the body,” he sighs. He catches Jack’s eyes. “But ours is a sweet boy,” he asserts with a smile, turning and gazing at the tree line. “Always up for an adventure.”

Jack accompanies him as he starts walking towards the back gate, remembering where his and Mark’s conversation had left off. “So Mark was starting to explain the roles of alters to me when you, er, got here. Something to do with why he’s the… main host. What’s the role of a little?” He eyes the skating ramp they pass by, wondering if it’s Mark’s or another alter’s.

Illinois unlatches the gate, holding it open for Jack and Chica to walk through. “You have to keep in mind,” he starts, swinging the gate shut behind them, “not all systems have the same roles, and sometimes one alter plays many roles, so everything you learn about our system doesn’t necessarily apply to others.”

“Makes sense,” Jack says, looking around the forest as Illinois leads him deeper into the trees. He sure hopes the man knows where they’re going, though the fact that they seem to be walking along a well-worn path is reassuring.

“Now our little, like many of the alters in our system, is a trauma holder.” The sentence hangs heavily in the air for a moment as Jack surmises what that means, his breath catching in his throat. Illinois’ face has lost its perma-smirk. “Trauma holders are the ones who went through abuse and hold onto their memories of it so that others in the system can function.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds as the information settles uneasily in Jack’s mind, sticks and dirt crunching beneath their feet. An eternal child whose purpose is to remember abuse. His stomach feels queasy. He has questions, but he doesn't want to pry into something so personal, especially with someone who’s not Mark. He may be familiar with Illinois, but this… it's nothing to take lightly. His fingers curl into his palms, nails biting into the flesh there. He has no idea what to say.

“I’m sorry,” is what he finally starts with, because it's the truth. He bumps his elbow against Illinois’ so that he’ll look at him, having seemed lost in thought. “I can't even pretend to know what that's like, but I'm here to listen to whatever you want to tell me about it, whether it be everything or nothing at all.” A somber smile forms on his lips.

The other man playfully knocks his shoulder into Jack’s in retaliation. “Thank you, darlin’. I appreciate that, and I'm sure everyone else will, too. But,” he says, leaning down suddenly to grab a larger stick, wiggling it at Chica, who immediately perks up, fixating on it. He throws it quite a ways ahead of them, and Chica takes off after it. “I’m not a trauma holder. I have some memories, here and there, some bad, some good, but there’s a lot of our childhood that I don’t remember because the trauma holders have those memories. The same goes for Mark. I can’t tell you how much he does or doesn’t remember, but I assume it’s not much.” He shrugs.

Jack’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “You don’t remember your childhood?!”

Illinois shakes his head, apparently unbothered. “I know the basics. Mark’s biological parents died when he was a baby, and he was adopted soon after that. The couple who adopted him were cruel, so the rest of us came along to help him as he needed us. Most of the time the trauma holders fronted because it was necessary.” Jack doesn’t like the implications of that. “I only really fronted when I was needed, so those memories are essentially all I have.”

The Irishman watches Chica come bounding back towards them, proudly showcasing her stick, though she’s uninterested in giving it back, prancing away when Illinois makes to swipe for it. He snorts at their antics before returning to the conversation. “And you’re saying Mark didn’t front much either?” Illinois shakes his head, and Jack continues. “But he said being the main host means he’s the one who fronts the most? And he said you’re a host, too? How’s that work if neither of you fronted much back then?”

“Roles can change,” Illinois answers breezily. “Mark wasn’t much more than the core for most of our youth. Like I said, we came into existence to help him, and in our case, that meant fronting in his stead so that he didn’t have to suffer. We got out of that situation eventually, and Mark returned. He was one of the only ones who could properly function at the time, so he became the main host, and that’s why he’s the one who identifies with the body. If he’s the one who’s most likely to be fronting in day to day life, it only makes sense for him to be the one to put his name on all the official papers and introduce himself as Mark.” Jack nods, and Illinois continues with a sigh. “Up until that point where Mark came back, my role had been to serve as a protector.” He catches Jack’s questioning look and clarifies. “It’s exactly what it sounds like, though there are different kinds of protectors. I mostly dealt with verbal abuse, defended us in that way, but I’m also a master escape artist,” he boasts, spreading his hands in front of him. “I gave ‘em quite a bit of hell.” The wide grin splitting his face makes it clear that he’s very proud of that fact.

Jack thinks he’s catching on to what Illinois’ trying to say. “But that’s not really needed so much in the life you have now, so your role switched?” 

Illinois looks a bit put out at that, his smile falling, and Jack has a moment of fearing that he’s put his foot in his mouth—jeez, could he _be_ more insensitive?—before he nods in agreement. “Yes. I’m still not someone to pick an argument with, fair warning, but there’s no need to escape this world we’ve built anymore.” There’s a hint of wistfulness in his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself of that. “I’m a host now. I don’t usually front for as long as Mark, but I do, in fact, come here often.” He sends a smug look Jack’s way, arching a brow, and Jack groans.

There’s a lull in the discussion while Jack thinks of his next question, and that’s when he hears a faint babble of running water. He searches for the source, noting that the ground abruptly slopes downward a few meters ahead of them. Interest piqued, he fails to see the root jutting from the dirt in front of him and promptly trips over it. A strangled yelp escapes him, but Illinois catches his arm and saves him from face-planting.

“You okay?” he asks, amused, and Jack nods, willing his face to not do a tomato impression for once. “Good.” He releases the Irishman after double-checking that he’s steady. “I tell you my life story and you’re already fallin’ for me. No need to rush, my dear,” he teases, and well, so much for not blushing.

Ever the epitome of maturity, Jack sticks out his tongue and follows after Chica, who’s disappeared down the hill. He can hear Illinois trailing behind with a chuckle, and it’s only another minute before he’s standing at the crest of the hill, looking down the gradual decline to see the dog sitting patiently alongside a small, sluggishly flowing stream, no more than seven feet across. A few yards down, a large fallen tree bridges the gap between the opposite banks of the water, and Jack suspects that Illinois crosses it often, based on the continued path on the other side. There’s also a conveniently placed boulder near Chica, wide and flat. Jack makes a beeline for that, sitting on the cool stone. 

Illinois perches next to him. “You don’t want to venture further?” He nods in the direction of the dead tree, the brim of his hat dipping low over his eyes.

“Absolutely not,” he huffs with a grin. “My track record is shot for the day. You’d probably end up having to fish me out of the water.” Not to mention it’s still hot. The shade provided by the trees makes it bearable, but he’d rather not sweat through his shirt. It wouldn’t exactly scream ‘date me!’

“I am a _fine_ fisherman—it’d be no trouble,” he cajoles lightly, prompting a snort from Jack.

He looks away from Illinois’ innocent smile. The man really is a relentless flirt. “Let’s get back on topic,” he suggests, leaning forward to love on Chica, who’s made her way over to them in a quest for attention, stick long forgotten. “So there are hosts, trauma holders, littles, and protectors,” he lists, giving himself a mental high-five for remembering them all. “Are there any other roles?” God, he could make a drinking game out of every time they’ve said ‘role’ today.

Illinois hums, shifting a bit. “Let’s see, there’s caregivers, the alters who look after the littles. Yancy’s our caregiver—used to be a protector. I’m sure he still is, if push comes to shove, but he doesn’t enjoy fronting much anymore.” The words are casual, but Jack senses that there’s something deeper there as the American stares pensively at the glittering water.

“He’s like, a 24/7 babysitter?” he questions. Sounds like a thankless job. Also, how does that even work? Is Yancy just a voice talking to the little? It occurs to him that he has no idea what the inside of Mark’s head looks like.

Illinois turns back to him, and Jack’s surprised to notice that his eyes have flecks of green in them that Mark’s own do not. And Jack would know, having gotten lost in them more times than he’s willing to admit. Maybe it’s just a reflection of the leaves from the trees?

“Sort of,” Illinois replies, bringing him back to the conversation. “Our little is pretty well-behaved, and he’s the only one, so it’s not an all-consuming task. Besides,” he continues with a deprecating smile, “Yancy’s a man-child, so they get along just fine.”

Jack’s got enough siblings to see the brotherly love for what it is. “Hey, they make for the best babysitters.”

Illinois tips his head in agreement. “That they do.” He adjusts his hat, running a hand through his hair before putting it back on. “Now, the last job in our system is the gatekeeper. Gatekeepers have some amount of control over who fronts at what time, though it’s not an exact science.” He laughs. “Ours tends to suggest rather than insist, so sometimes it can turn into a bit of a free-for-all when we fight over the keys.”

“Keys?” He’s lost Jack.

“Oh, of course,” Illinois huffs after returning his blank stare for a moment. “We’re all in a limo on the inside.” He points at his head. “The person with the keys gets to drive, or front. We tend to use both words interchangeably.” He waves a hand, looking back over the water like he hasn’t dropped one of the most fascinating pieces of information yet.

“Wait, a _limo?_ So it’s like, visual, in your head? You can all see each other and everything? How many alters fit in there?” He couldn’t stop the fountain of questions pouring out of him if he tried. He doesn’t even notice Chica nosing insistently at where his hands have frozen mid-pet, too blown away by the idea of internally living in a limo.

Illinois appears to be amusedly taken aback, holding up a hand in a _slow down_ motion. “Yes, it’s a whole inner world as realistic as these woods we’re in now,” he answers, gesturing around them. “The limo itself isn’t incredibly complex, but we can sit in the back if we choose, which allows us to go to our own personal headspaces that other alters generally can’t access. That’s where Mark hid during his younger years.” He pauses when Chica decides to lie across both their feet with a harrumph, having given up on Jack. He smiles affectionately before continuing. “As for how many of us there are, there are currently less than ten alters, but I’ve no doubt that fifty of us could fit comfortably in there if that were the case; the beauty of mind physics.”

“Damn,” Jack breathes, impressed. Then something else occurs to him. “Wait, ‘currently’? Does the number of alters change?”

“It can,” Illinois acknowledges with a tilt of his head. “It’s not a common occurrence for us. New alters can form later in life because that’s how our mind has learned to cope with stress, but that hasn’t happened with us, at least not yet. Our number changed because of integration, which is when multiple alters merge into one. Poor Bim and Celine…” he trails off, expression clouding over in soft sorrow.

Jack sits in uncertainty for a moment, wanting to offer sympathy but not knowing how. He settles a hand on the other man’s shoulder, which prompts him to look up at Jack. “Is integration bad?” he hedges, unsure if he’s making it worse with his question.

But Illinois shakes his head with a reassuring smile. “Not generally, no. Our case is just more disturbing than most.” He bends forward to pick up a small rock from the ground, Jack’s hand falling from his shoulder. Running his fingers along the smooth surface, he elaborates: “This was back when life was still dangerous. Bim used to be a host, and Celine was a protector. One day they were co-hosting, and when they came back inside, they’d integrated.” He frowns, clenching the stone in his hand. “But they’re a fragment now, not a fully functioning alter. They call themselves the Host, which is confusing, I know, but they never front. The Host is actually our gatekeeper. They’re blind, and they always seem to know what’s happening outside, but they’re not a _person._ There’s no talking to them. Whatever they saw… it broke them,” he says bitterly. The nail beds of his thumbs are white from how hard he’s grasping the rock.

Jack’s sitting on his own hands again because he doesn’t know how to help, isn’t even sure he knows quite what Illinois means. “I’m sorry,” he offers solemnly. “It sounds like you lost two friends.” The American’s wooden nod encourages him on. “And you don’t know what happened?”

Illinois shrugs, mouth twisting. “We all have an educated guess, but there’s no way to know for sure.” He blows out a breath. “I think someone missed a switch, and Bim was traumatized because of that—he wasn’t meant to be a trauma holder. Celine probably integrated to save him, and now we have the Host as a gatekeeper so that nobody ever fails to switch when they’re needed again.” He hunches in on himself, the defeated slump of his shoulders indescribably concerning, given his typical self-assurance.

Jack’s heart aches at the pain in his voice. He’d managed to distance himself from thinking too hard about Mark’s childhood so far, preferring to wait until he’s alone to process it because the last thing he wants is to make it about him by letting his emotions get the best of him, but this clear example of how shitty their upbringing was threatens to break down the wall he’d thrown up. It’s obvious just from talking with Illinois that everyone in the system shared the misery in some way, and it’s both horrifying and infuriating that they had to go through that at all. And Jack just can’t help his empathetic nature.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice thicker than he’d like. He clears his throat. “But you have to know that it wasn’t your fault. None of you deserved to be in that situation, and you couldn’t have known that was going to happen.” Jack needs him to hear this, because he’s definitely sensing guilt wallowing in Illinois’ downcast eyes.

Illinois side-eyes him, trying for a smirk but falling short. “You sound like our therapist,” he mutters good-naturedly.

“That’s because I’ve got a ginormous noggin sittin’ on toppa these wee shoulders,” he jokes, laying his accent on thick. “And so does your therapist. Trust me, us big-brained folk know what we’re talkin’ about.”

The other man rolls his eyes and returns to staring at the rock that he’s started twirling between his fingers, but Jack spots the way the corners of his lips tilt upward slightly and counts it as a win.

On an impulse, Jack snatches the stone out of Illinois’ hands, rejoicing in the shocked look on his face when he slings it into the stream. It skips twice before sinking, which is honestly more than Jack had expected since it hadn’t been the flattest rock.

Illinois barks a laugh. “Oh, Jack, you don’t know what you’ve done.” He reaches down and plucks another pebble from the ground before flinging it at the water with a deft flick of his wrist. Jack watches it skip four times along the surface, nodding slowly when Illinois turns his smug grin on him.

“You’re _on,_ my guy,” he challenges, diving for another stone.

The ensuing contest lasts for several minutes as Jack channels into every memory of his country-boy childhood, his fingers remembering how to add _just enough_ of a spin to encourage more skipping. He’s used to larger bodies of water, though, and the narrow angle throws him off. Illinois has obviously had his fair share of practice at this particular spot, securing the win when his rock skips out of sight around the bend.

“Sorcery!” Jack crows, astonished.

The American preens, and Jack does the same internally for restoring the man to his usual cocky state.

“I do have the magic touch,” he drawls suggestively, sending a coy look Jack’s way. Yep, completely back to normal.

A long-suffering groan escapes Jack, and he scrubs his hands over his face while Illinois chuckles, incredibly pleased with himself.

“Well, King Midas, I can sense that I’m about to get hangry soon, and I don’t think your magic fingers will be able to help you then,” he admits with a faux-regretful smile. Funnily enough, a few sticks of pure sugar earlier hadn’t tided him over for long. Spotting the mischievous sparkle in Illinois’ (definitely green?!) eyes, Jack rushes to cut off what will no doubt be a horrifying come-on: “Getting hangrier by the second!” he shouts, jumping to his feet and startling Chica. “C’mon, I’m doing this for you, buddy!” Waving for Illinois to follow him, he begins marching back down the path towards the house.

“Well, that’s mighty gracious of you,” Illinois responds, amusement coloring his voice as he somehow appears at Jack’s side despite never once picking up the pace from his casual swagger. “Hangry Jack sounds like a formidable foe.”

“Or the name of a new fast food chain that I’d immediately get sued for,” he snorts.

The walk back to the house doesn’t take long, and Illinois insists on holding the gate open for him again with a bow. The Irishman shakes his head and laughs when Chica enthusiastically takes the invitation, prancing into the yard ahead of him with her tail held high. She leads the way to the door, and they all slip back inside.

Illinois turns to Jack with an apologetic grin. “Unfortunately, cooking is one of the few talents that escapes me. Please, have mercy on me while I forage for food in the frozen wilderness.” He makes his way to the freezer and peers inside.

Jack lets out a dramatic gasp, slapping a hand over his chest. “You? Lacking in anything? Say it ain’t so!”

He receives what he assumes is Illinois’ version of a scowl, which looks more like a judgemental squint than anything, before the alter pulls out a large frozen disc. “Pizza? It’s got your name on it,” he offers with a smirk, waving it in his direction. Jack sends him a flat look after seeing that the brand name does indeed match his own.

“Hm. You got any eggs? I can make some,” he replies, opening the refrigerator door. Usually he’d be down for the pizza, but it’ll take longer than his stomach has the patience for tonight. A glance at the microwave clock tells him it’s almost 6:30, and he hasn’t eaten real food since noon. He’s famished.

“Score,” he sing-songs after spotting the cardboard carton. Opening it, he sees there are enough eggs for the two of them and makes his way over to the stove. He grabs a skillet down from where it hangs on the pot rack above him. “You good with scrambled?”

“Anything I don’t have to make is fine by me,” Illinois says, retrieving a bowl, spatula, and fork for him from various cupboards and drawers. Jack accepts them gratefully, and the other man turns to the toaster, pulling a loaf of bread from the drawer beneath it and showcasing it to Jack. “Toast is my specialty.”

Jack makes the eggs, Illinois butters the toast and pours some orange juice, and soon they’re at the table while Jack tries to act civilized and not wolf down the meal as fast as humanly possible.

“So did we cover everything about DID?” he asks eventually around a bite of toast. “I’m sure I’ll think of more questions, but I’m kind of sorting through everything in my brain right now.”

Illinois finishes his sip of orange juice, expression thoughtful as he absently licks his lips. Jack nearly crushes his toast in his grip because _good God_ is the body sitting across from him attractive, Mark or not. Illinois raises a curious brow at him, the side of his mouth ticking up knowingly after a moment.

Thankfully, he spares Jack by glossing over the moment, letting out a low whistle. “Darlin’, you could stay here for a year and still not know everything. Hell, we’re still learning every day ourselves,” he laughs. “But yes, I do believe we’ve covered the basics,” he says, standing and grabbing both of their now empty plates and heading to the dishwasher. Jack follows, pulling Chica’s food from the fridge and pouring it in her bowl, which she descends upon excitedly.

Illinois continues. “Mark’s pulling the reins anyway—he’ll be here soon. He wants to be the one to discuss the _romance_ aspect of this,” he informs Jack, eyeing him slyly while he brings the skillet to the sink and flicks the water on. “He’s afraid I might woo you away if I do it. You’ll have to tell him it’s already too late.” He doesn’t try to hide his insufferably impish grin.

Fumbling for words in the face of the man’s pure ego, Jack finally blusters out, “Ya think one little walk in the woods is enough to have me swoonin’? It’d take a bit more effort than that!”

Illinois doesn’t appear deterred, slanting an unimpressed glance his way. “Well until today you thought I was Mark, and just because he’s oblivious doesn’t mean _I_ am. Smitten is an adorable look on you, darlin’.” He continues scrubbing at the pan, completely confident in his statement.

“Um,” Jack replies intelligently, feeling his cheeks begin to heat.

Green, mirthful eyes meet his. “It’s okay, Jack,” he reassures lightly, setting the half-washed skillet down in the sink and wiping off his hands. “I’m a catch, I know. But I’m running short on time.” He grabs Jack’s hand and presses his lips to his knuckles, and that doesn’t help with his blush at all. He needs to _stop_ with the smolder. “It’s been lovely. Thank you for listening—I’ll be seeing you,” he promises with a wink.

“Er, bye?” Jack responds as the American turns back to the sink and resumes with cleaning. He receives a nod, and the next thirty seconds proceed as normal. Then, the motions of Illinois’ hands gradually slow before stopping altogether. He stands there, head dipping down slightly as he remains completely motionless for several long beats. Jack watches as Mark takes control, looking down into the sink before turning to the Irishman, face brightening when he meets his eyes. His warm, brown eyes. _Sorcery, indeed._

“Jack,” he breathes, shoulders loosening from where they’d begun to unconsciously hunch. “You’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” Jack agrees softly. He doesn’t know what it’d take to drag him away from Mark, but it certainly isn’t DID.

Nor the flirtations of a roguishly charming adventurer. No matter what said adventurer may think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So y'all really thought Mark was just gonna unleash Dark on Jack for his first meeting with an alter lmao. For future reference, I'm not tagging characters until they're named as a way to try and retain some mystery, so the currently tagged characters are not the full cast of this fic!
> 
> Also, Mark will be answering some more questions in the next chapter, and Jack will learn more about DID throughout the fic, but if you can think of any glaring questions that haven't been answered yet, please let me know and I'll incorporate them into future chapters! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Staring at him for a long moment in amazement, Mark blows out a breath and shakes his head. “I guess that was a pretty stupid thing to say anyway—‘you’re still here.’ Where exactly would you have gone?” he scoffs, gesturing around. Then he abruptly spins back to Jack, alarmed. “I didn’t mean to make it like that, though! I just, it’s not the sort of thing I like to talk about in public, and I guess we could’ve gone to your place but that would’ve been a little presumptuous of me to just outright _ask_ and—”

“Mark, dude, slow down,” laughs Jack. “First of all, I didn’t take it that way; I haven’t once felt trapped here. Second, I get why you’d want to do this in private. It’s not exactly a light topic. I don’t mind—this place is awesome.” He shrugs, sending half a grin towards Mark. “You didn’t tell me there was a creek in the woods!”

“He took you to the—of course he did,” Mark huffs fondly. “Well, I guess he didn’t make too bad of an impression if you were willing to follow him into the woods, then. Congratulations, you survived Illinois.” He offers Jack three slow claps.

“He wasn’t that bad,” the Irishman defends with a chuckle. “He’s definitely convinced I’m madly in love with him, though.” He rolls his eyes.

A snort escapes Mark as he leans back against the counter. “Somehow, knowing him, that doesn’t surprise me at all, actually. He’s pretty full of himself.”

“No kiddin’. I thought your ego was big, but it’s got nothin’ on him.”

“Hey!” Mark gripes, failing to hide a smile. “For the record, I’m just channeling Illinois half the time because it’s funny.”

For some reason, it’s this third time that Jack hears Illinois’ name and it finally clicks. “Wait, oh my God, I just realized— _Illinois,_ like a knock-off Indiana Jones?!” he exclaims, waving at the hat still perched atop Mark’s head. “That’s fucking—that’s great, man,” he laughs. “He must love those movies.”

The American sucks in air through his teeth, simultaneously taking off the hat he must not have realized was there. “Oof, don’t let him hear you say that. If you ask him, Indiana Jones is a fraud who only barely manages to get himself out of trouble through ‘sheer dumb luck and occasionally rubbing the two braincells he has together,’” he says while he heads back to replace the hat on the coat rack, sounding like he’s reciting a spiel he’s heard a hundred times over.

“Wow,” Jack remarks in amusement, shaking his head in disbelief. “You haven’t told him he’s the personality thief?”

“Been there, done that,” he replies as he returns to his perch by the counter. “I’d rather be able to go about my day without hearing a freaking doctoral thesis about why I’m wrong, thanks. If you’re smart, you won’t try telling him, either. That’s like, one of the only ways to get negative brownie points with him.”

“Noted,” Jack whistles. 

An easy silence falls between them for a moment before Mark interrupts it. “So what did you guys talk about? I don’t really know where we’re at in the whole, uh, DID discussion.”

After a minute of racking his brain to try and recall everything Illinois had explained to him, Jack relays that to him—”A _limousine,_ Mark? That’s fuckin’ dope!” He repeats what he’d learned about the different roles, and Mark seems pleasantly surprised by how much he remembers, his face going slightly pink as he glances down at his feet and bites at his bottom lip.

“What?” Jack asks, interrupting himself. He crosses his arms, wondering if he’d forgotten something or remembered it wrong.

“I just… you were really listening. Like, you actually care, you’re not just humoring me and planning on ghosting me as soon as you can, and that’s, just, blowing my mind right now,” Mark breathes shakily, and when he looks up his eyes are glistening. “Sorry,” he mumbles, hastily wiping at them. “I’m a little, ah, overwhelmed. This is—it’s not how I pictured today going, and it’s a huge relief is all.” The words are an auditory blur as he rushes to compose himself, but Jack can hear the hitch in his breathing and it’s enough to send him across the kitchen and right into Mark’s space. He throws his arms around the other man and squeezes tight, resting his head on his shoulder when Mark firmly returns the embrace, his fingers digging into the back of Jack’s henley.

“‘Course I care, dummy,” he mutters into Mark’s shirt, revelling in his warmth. “You’re great. We’ve all got our problems. For example, I snore, and I’m told it’s pretty bad, but this is the only time you’ll hear me admit it, so consider yourself lucky.”

Being able to _feel_ Mark’s body shake with laughter is a God-tier experience that Jack will not be forgetting anytime soon. “Well, you could say it’s the luck o’ the Irish,” Mark teases, hugging tighter for a moment and prompting a disapproving groan from Jack at the play on words. Jack’s not so bothered, though, when the American settles his head atop Jack’s own with a contented sigh. In fact, Mark can probably feel the heat of Jack’s face soaking through his shirt as he attempts to not die in an explosion of butterflies and rainbows, but Jack finds that he doesn’t really care.

They remain pressed together for several long moments before Mark straightens and pulls away. “Thanks,” he says, genuine, and Jack nods as he wraps his arms around himself once more, trying to retain the warm glow buzzing along his skin. He debates mentioning his knowledge of the Host’s tragic backstory, since he’d skipped over it when he’d been listing off the different roles, but quickly decides against it for now. It’s a sensitive topic, and Mark’s already feeling vulnerable. Another day.

Mark pulls out his phone and taps at it for a few seconds before frowning down at it. “Did he feed Chica?” he questions, looking around for the canine in question.

“Oh, yeah, I did right before you switched back,” Jack assures him, also glancing to see that she’d left the room at some point. “She must have gone to lay down somewhere.”

Mark nods, tapping again before putting his phone away. “Sorry, I was just checking—we keep a to-do list in the notes app, with a general summary of what we’re doing at any given time so it’s not so confusing when we switch, but Illinois must’ve forgotten,” he supplies. “He does that a lot—he’s easily distracted.”

“I can see that,” Jack laughs. “That’s smart, though. You guys don’t really talk to each other, then?”

Mark tilts his head, pondering. “It really depends. Most of the time when I’m home, I’ll let my guard down a bit and kind of let everyone else see what I’m doing, and that’s when we tend to talk back and forth with each other. Or, grocery shopping’s a good example, I guess. They don’t always see what I’m seeing, but they all have their opinions of what I should get,” he snorts. “The alters who front more tend to be louder, so I can almost always ‘talk’ to whoever’s fronting when I’m not; whether they listen…” he shrugs, “that’s a different story. But no, I’d say that we spend the majority of the time by ourselves when we’re fronting. In Illinois’ case, it’s because he wanted to, and I respect that. But a lot of the other alters are harder to reach, so we _can’t_ talk to each other most of the time if they’re fronting.” He slants an uncertain glance at Jack. “Does that make sense? Probably not.”

“No, I think I get it. It’s kind of an introvert/extravert thing. The ones who are out—fronting—more are the ones who are more talkative, and the ones who prefer not to front don’t have as developed social skills to be good at talking,” Jack reasons, unconsciously smoothing his fingers along his beard as he speaks.

A surprised huff of laughter escapes the American. “In that sense, I guess you’re right,” he acknowledges with a tilt of his head. “I wouldn’t call all of them actual introverts, though. They’re just more ‘along for the ride’ than some.”

“No, yeah, of course,” Jack agrees. “But ya gotta admit, that was pretty big-brained of me.”

Mark shakes his head with an exaggerated rolling of his eyes. “You’re right. You have the bestest, humongous-est head around, Jack,” he answers, a sly smirk crawling up his face.

“Oi!” Jack cries, swatting playfully at Mark’s arm. “I think we can all agree that that title belongs to Illinois!”

They both dissolve into giggles, gleefully shoving at each other until Mark’s elbow knocks into the handle of the skillet that’s still in the sink, and it falls over with a _clang._ “Oh, shit, right, that’s what he was doing,” Mark says, turning to resume where Illinois had left off. He blanches when he picks up the pan. “Oh, God, wait, he cooked for you? Now I really can’t believe you’re still here. Remember our earlier discussion about serial killers? Well, he could be one if he went around shoving his food down people’s throats,” he chuckles, sending Jack a sympathetic look. “But I guess you already know that.” His words are light-hearted, but the Irishman can sense that he’s more bothered than he’s letting on.

“Oh, no, he warned me. I just made us some eggs,” Jack corrects, hoping to ease the tension brewing in Mark’s shoulders.

It turns out that his words have the opposite effect. Freezing, Mark looks back up at him, horrified, before swiftly returning to cleaning. “Wait, he made _you_ cook? As a guest in _our_ house? On our _maybe-date?!”_ he questions shrilly, clearly incredulous.

Jack can’t help the thrill that goes through him at the reminder that this whole evening could be leading to something more. His concerns have been elsewhere for the majority of the day, and the fact that they’re finally toeing the topic of romance is as exciting as it is nerve-wracking. But Mark actually looks about one second away from combustion, his scrubbing at the pan becoming frenzied, so he should definitely worry about that first.

“Well, I offered. He didn’t _make_ me do anything,” he snorts. “I was happy to do it. Not claimin’ my cooking’s anything to write home about, but it’s edible.”

The American appears to be slightly relieved, but he’s still sporting a disheartened frown. “I was hoping dinner could be one of the few times today that wasn’t about me. I was gonna maybe take you somewhere,” he admits with a shrug, finishing off the skillet and quickly washing the spatula.

Jack beams—that sounds a lot closer to _date_ -date territory than maybe-date. “Well you’ll have plenty of opportunities to wine and dine me in the future,” he assures him, crossing his arms in an attempt to play it casual. “‘Sides, I came here today pretty much expectin’ it to be all about you, and I can guarantee it would’ve been a lot less interesting if it were _me_ blatherin’ on about myself.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mark counters, drying his hands. “And is grape juice still romantic enough? It doesn’t quite have the same flow as ‘wine and dine,’ but it’s the best I can do,” he throws over his shoulder with a forced nonchalance, and Jack has a moment to worry about what he’d said to make the muscles along the other man’s back grow taught with—discomfort? defensiveness?

 _Focus,_ he reminds himself, forcefully bringing his thoughts back to Mark’s words. He frowns in confusion for a second before he remembers Mark’s alcohol allergy that he’d mentioned during some distant conversation. Predictable as ever, he leans on his old crutch of humor to try and diffuse the situation. “The sacrifices I make for you,” he jokes, leading the way back to their previous spot in the living room, tired of standing.

Mark isn’t as amused as Jack had hoped, frowning as he settles next to Jack. “There are going to be plenty of those if you decide to date me,” he hedges carefully, gnawing on his lower lip but maintaining eye contact. “Sacrifices,” he elaborates after Jack lets out a questioning noise. “I’m not—this disorder controls a lot of my life, and if you want to be a part of it—” his gaze breaks away, “—you would have to adapt to my lifestyle. I recognize that that’s not fair, and I really wish this weren’t the case, but I have a lot of people to look out for and take care of, and to do that I can’t exactly live life the way most people do,” he rushes out, a somewhat bitter admission as his thumbs tap mindless staccatos against his knees.

Taking a moment to pause and think over his words, Jack eventually nods. “Okay. What kinds of _sacrifices_ are we talkin’, here?”

A deep breath escapes Mark. “Um, alcohol is one, since we’re already on the topic. It’d be fine if it was just that I was allergic to it, but it’s also a trigger for one of the alters, so I don’t really like being around it. You wouldn’t be able to drink, at least not around me.”

Jack’s brows scrunch together. “Trigger?” He knows what the term means, but he wants to make sure he’s fully understanding what Mark’s saying.

“Oh, right,” Mark mutters. “Sorry. Triggers, in DID terms, are things that cause us to switch because they call a specific alter to the front. There are positive triggers, meaning they don’t remind the alter of traumatic memories. An alter’s favorite song can be a positive trigger that brings them to the front. That still doesn’t mean it’s ever okay to try to force a switch without permission—that’s extremely disrespectful to whoever’s fronting,” he explains, brushing back some unruly strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes. “There are also negative triggers, like, uh…” he trails off, shamefaced. “I can’t really watch like, abusive scenes in movies or anything. It makes me switch, ten out of ten times. Sometimes even just violence-heavy games or movies get to me.”

“Well fuck, anything that makes you—or any alters—feel like that ain’t worth it anyway,” Jack proclaims, horrified. “I know I’m Irish, but I’m not a ragin’ alcoholic, so sobriety is fine by me!”

There’s a soft look in Mark’s eyes that Jack’s not entirely sure what to do about, his insides fluttering. “Thanks, Jack, There’s more stuff you’d be giving up, though.”

“I’m listening,” he encourages, grabbing his bag of candy from where he’d left it earlier and taking an enthusiastic bite for comedic effect.

Mark huffs, his eyes crinkling. “Well, I don’t really… go places. I haven’t been to a movie theater in years, restaurants are for when I’m feeling brave, window shopping is definitely a no-go,” he lists off, face pinching slightly. “Public spaces are risky, because they tend to be full of triggers and there’s no telling what’ll happen if I switch. My alters can be a little self-destructive, even if they don’t mean to be, so it’s better to stick to home and the shop. The store’s mine, at least, so anybody who might notice me acting funny isn’t going to like, call the cops. It’s familiar, too, so the alters aren’t as agitated,” he explains matter-of-factly, and Jack nods. It makes sense, wanting to avoid that.

Mark seems to have to work himself up to continue, taking in a deep breath. “So what I’m trying to say,” he finally sighs (and Jack can tell that running his hands through his hair is a nervous habit of his), “is that we really wouldn’t go anywhere, or do anything super exciting. Maybe eventually, if you met the others and they were all more comfortable around you, because then we’d have someone we trusted looking out for us in public, but I can’t even try to guess how long that would take, and…” His gaze turns plaintive as he searches for words. “You deserve better than that. You should be able to go out on dates, and when you do that you shouldn’t be worried that your partner is going to switch and turn you into an overqualified babysitter. You shouldn’t have to mold yourself around me to make the relationship work, but I _really_ can’t offer you anything better than that. I’m so, so incredibly grateful that you haven’t demanded that I take you home yet, but I don’t know that I can give you what you need.” Pain laces through every word spewing from the American’s mouth, and he leans forward into a resigned slump, head hanging low.

It’s a herculean effort, not interrupting at any point during Mark’s tangent, but when it’s over he has to blink for a long beat, then two, because there’s just so much _wrong_ that he doesn’t know where to start. “Okay, first,” he finally begins, “I think I’m the one who should be deciding what I do or don’t need from a relationship, as well-meaning as you are,” he chides lightly. “Second—I’m a homebody, Mark. I don’t really go out much anyway, and I think havin’ someone to hang out with while I watch an unhealthy amount of Netflix will give me even less reason to want to. The only reason I’m in your store so much is because you’re in it. Besides,” he waves a hand in Mark’s wide-eyed direction and tries to ignore the blood that’s surely pooling in his face from the admission, “I’m a simple man; I need coffee, sleep, and maybe some attention. If you’re not willing to respect that, then yeah, things probably wouldn’t work out so well between us, but don’t be so quick to sell yourself short.”

A period of silence falls between them as Mark absorbs the Irishman’s rant with a disbelieving stare. “Jack… You can’t—can’t be serious. I appreciate that you’ve taken all this in stride, but dating me? It would be totally okay if you just wanted to stay friends—”

“Well I don’t,” Jack states plainly, surprising himself with how blunt he’s being. He slides closer to Mark until their legs are almost touching. “I’ve had a crush on you since basically day one, and this disorder ain’t stopping it. It’s a part of you, and you’re amazing. I’ve never met anyone that I _clicked_ with instantly before you, and I’m willing to try and adjust to your needs, just like I know you’ll do your best to adapt to mine. And if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But we’ll never know until we try.” He reaches out a hand and places it on the other man’s knee, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremors reverberating along it. He always gets a bit shaky when his emotions are out in the open. 

“Are you like, an android that my therapist programmed to be exactly like the hypothetical person who’s supposed to accept me despite my heaping mountains of baggage?” Mark asks, wonderstruck, and Jack can’t help but blush. He’s never had someone look at him with such awe and hope before.

“I’m gonna need ya to knock your standards down a peg, ‘cause I am a long ways from robotic perfection,” Jack giggles. Then, because he’d apparently spent too much time around Illinois today, he adds, “But I’ve got some baggage of my own, baby. Let’s book a hotel, make a real vacation out of it.” He tacks on an exaggerated wink.

Mark’s jaw hits the floor, and then suddenly they’re both guffawing.

“Please, never speak again!” Mark gasps out, clutching his stomach.

“Oh my God, I need one of those _Men in Black_ sticks, _neuralyzers,_ holy shit, forget I said anything,” Jack laughs, covering his red face.

“Hell no, I’m gonna start journaling just to write that down!”

It takes several minutes for them to reach any semblance of composure, but Jack finally sobers after remembering what his initial plan had been. He returns his hand to where it had been resting on Mark’s knee, prompting Mark to look at him expectantly, warily. “Mark Fischbach,” he begins, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a giddy, terrified smile, “would you please go on a date-date with me? Or maybe a dozen? To my place, to your backyard—it doesn’t matter. Being with you is enough.” God, when did he turn into Nicholas Sparks?

Mark’s eyes search his for a long moment, warm and shocked and just as scared, before he slowly rests his hand on top of Jack’s and laces their fingers together. “Seán McLoughlin,” he reciprocates, humor gracing the lines of his face, “I’d be honored to go on a date-date or two with you.”

The laugh that escapes the Irishman is one part crippling fear leaving his body in a tsunami wave, two parts sheer relief, and about ninety parts pure joy. He crashes into Mark’s side and envelops him in an exuberant embrace, relishing the _oomph_ the American lets out upon impact. “Thank you,” he says happily, burrowing into Mark’s chest.

He still has Mark’s hand in an awkward death grip smushed between them, and the other man squeezes once before extricating it from Jack’s grasp, worming his arm between them and wrapping it around Jack. “This cannot be comfortable for you,” he muses fondly.

“Coziest spot in the house,” he disagrees, feeling Mark’s answering huff of amusement tickle his hair.

Several minutes pass by in this way, both of them content to lazily absorb their new dynamic. Mark’s hand slowly runs along the length of Jack’s back in soothing circles, and Jack’s thumb feels out the slight ridges of ribs and defined muscle along Mark’s side. He listens as the American’s heart rate gradually slows beneath his ear, and his even breaths resemble a soft lullaby doing its best to ease him into sleep. It’s been a draining day, emotionally, and he imagines Mark must be twice as tired.

Mark eventually speaks up, cutting his contented stupor short. “For the record—I’ve been attracted to you pretty much from the start, too. I just never expected it to go anywhere, so I didn’t say anything. But you’ve really put yourself out there tonight, and you should know that I think you’re hilarious. And handsome,” he tacks on, sounding genuine if a smidge embarrassed.

It takes Jack a moment to get over how intoxicating it is, hearing Mark’s baritone from the source as it buzzes into his ear, unbelievably deep. Once he actually realizes what the other man’s just said, he bites his lip to hide his pleased smile as he risks a glance up at Mark’s face.

Mark lets out a dramatic, fawning sigh. “And those eyes!” he breathes. “I don’t even like the ocean, but damn, you might be changing my mind.” He’d obviously meant it to be a teasing comment, but his grin falls short the longer they stare at each other, something new sparking to life in Mark’s eyes as the scant distance between them registers.

Jack decides to be brave once more. “Is kissing allowed on maybe-dates?”

In response, Mark’s hand comes up and hooks under the Irishman’s chin, guiding him up as Mark leans down, pressing their lips together. It’s slightly clumsy, and the angle’s a bit off, but it’s warm, and Mark’s beard scratches against his in a way that sends tingles racing along his skin. It remains chaste, but somehow it’s the best kiss Jack’s ever had. It’s just so _right._

Mark breaks it off after a few seconds, and he can’t seem to stop himself from grinning anymore than Jack can. “Shitty maybe-date or not, kissing is always an option,” he rumbles.

“Hey, this is the best maybe-date I’ve ever had,” Jack protests, eyebrows drawing together.

Mark scoffs. “I’m willing to bet it’s the only one you’ve had, which automatically means that it’s simultaneously the worst.”

Jack stares at him for a long moment, mouth agape, before deciding to switch tactics. A smirk creeps up his face. “You’re right,” he sniffs. “This is the worst maybe-date I’ve ever been on. I think more kisses are the only thing that could possibly make up for it.”

“You—wow,” Mark murmurs with a shake of his head, even as he literally pulls Jack into his lap. “So demanding.” And then his lips are on Jack’s again, soon followed by his tongue, and yeah, screw maybe-date, this is one of the best _days_ Jack’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm! Insecure! About this chapter! And I don't know why! Haaaa ;_;
> 
> I hope you guys like it, though! Sorry it was a bit of a wait, I've got some big life changes going on right now (all good, thankfully). Hopefully the next chapter will be up sooner!


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